Wilderness Tips
by Allegra
Summary: Dean's hatred of planes proves to be well founded when the Winchester boys crash in the wilderness. With nothing but Bobby and their wits to keep them alive,will they make it back to civilisation in one piece or will someone be lost along the way?
1. Assume Crash Positions

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

Disclaimers : Luckily for Dean & Sam Winchester, I do not own them. They are the property of Eric Kripke & the CW. In my fanfic world, however, their suffering is in my hands for all eternity! Enjoy. This fic was partly stoked by Polly's challenge that I try to write a story no longer than 40 pages. For me, that's like turning my ideas into a haiku but I won't back down now! I just hope it doesn't leave the story lacking.

PART 1 : ASSUME CRASH POSITIONS

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Dean grumbled as he pulled the seatbelt tighter across his lap, refusing to admit that it was mildly constricting his blood supply. He narrowed his eyes as he looked out of the Plexiglas window of the small plane at the stretch of runway ahead of them, wondering how the hell they were ever going to get off the ground on one engine alone and stay up there. "This just isn't natural, man." Sam's smug face only made Dean feel more irritated and unsettled.

His younger brother grinned as he moved awkwardly past his brother to sit in the window seat. "You didn't have to come, Dean. I told you Bobby and I could handle this on our own."

"And leave you to get mauled to death by some grizzly Big Foot? I don't think so," Dean defended himself. Sam gave him a sceptical look. They both knew, deep down, that the older Winchester lived in fear that hunters were on his brother's tail and he would never forgive himself if something happened to Sam because he had been too afraid to climb into a plane.

"Don't trust me enough to keep him out of trouble?" asked Bobby, offended, as he took his own seat in the twin seats on the other side of the aisle from the two brothers. He peered out from under the peak of his trademark baseball cap, eyes narrowed in mock annoyance. Dean opened and closed his mouth like a fish on a hook and the older hunter could almost see the poor boy's brain working overtime to come up with a suitably placating response. Saving him from digging a deeper hole, Bobby changed the subject. "'Sides, the Skyhawk is a classic light plane. Did you know there have been more Cessna 172s built than any other Western aircraft? It's arguably the most popular flight training aircraft in the world. This baby's got a 150 horsepower engine, goes a 123 knots…" He paused when he saw the amused expression on the Winchesters' faces. "What?!"

"Like your planes, huh, Bobby?" Sam smiled.

"I'm licensed to fly one of these things!" the hunter blurted out.

"Then why don't you?" Dean interjected. "I'd rather see you at the wheel than the geriatric we've been assigned." He jerked his head in the direction of the grey-haired man ambling across the runway.

"Is that a limp? Wonder how he got it…" Sam grinned over Dean's shoulder, receiving a venomous glare from his already petrified brother.

"You're going to pay for this in circus trips when we get back."

"What can I say, bro? It's a rare pleasure to see the wind put up you so easy. Besides, you've been on a plane before and we didn't die. With the odds we were up against, you'd think it would have restored your faith in man's greatest engineering advancement." Sam had run this argument past Dean too many times to remember but it did nothing to allay his brother's fears. Instead, Dean just leaned his head back against the leather seat and rolled his eyes in exasperation and whispered, "Yadda, yadda, yadda…"

"Fine," Sam shrugged. "I won't bother trying to make it easier for you anymore, Dean. You want to give in to completely irrational fears then be my guest. It just seems kind of hypocritical, that's all."

"Hypocritical?" Dean repeated. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means saying one thing and…"

"I know what the damn word means, Sam!" Dean snapped, angrily.

Sam laughed, enjoying the small pleasure of pushing all his brother's buttons one after the other with such slick surety. "Well, given what we do. I mean most of it boils down to what people are willing to believe…"

"Don't try and stick me with that crap, Sam. This is completely different and you know it!" Dean interrupted again.

"How, Dean?! How is it different?" Sam asked, incredulous that his brother could be so level-headed about every creature of the night that crossed their path but be so irrational about a simple plane flight.

Bobby sighed in resignation. The trickster the brothers had encountered mere weeks before had really opened his eyes to the bickering that went on between the two but he was damned if he was going to put up with it on a beautiful day like today. The hunter was determined to enjoy this rare opportunity to get up in the air and relish the gorgeous scenery unfolding beneath him. He would not have it ruined by listening to Dean and Sam riling each other the entire time. "That's enough!" he bellowed, commanding silence immediately.

Sam looked sheepishly at the older man. "Sorry, Bobby." He looked at Dean to see if he would be gracious enough to apologise, too, but the older Winchester sat tight-lipped and Sam momentarily regretted rubbing salt in Dean's wounds. It wasn't like his brother made a fuss about anything much beyond the state of his beloved car, and Sam felt mean for being so unsupportive when Dean was clearly suffering.

Lost in their argument, neither boy had noticed the pilot taking his seat and running a battery of instrument checks. When the plane rumbled into action, Dean's hand gripped the arm rest with vice-like strength, his knuckles whitening with the exertion.

"Everyone buckled up?" the pilot enquired.

Sam checked himself and turned to Dean who was fumbling to tighten his belt even further. "It doesn't go any tighter than that, Dean." He gently pushed his brother's hands away from the fabric belt and glanced at Bobby for some kind of support.

Bobby called out to the pilot. "We're good." Turning his attention to Dean, he decided to distract the boy with details of their investigation. He knew it would sound pretty far-fetched to the pilot but preventing Dean's meltdown seemed more important. "So, there have been some pretty savage attacks on animal hunters in the wilderness outside of Whitehorse. What little has been found of the bodies showed signs of claw marks."

"Remind me why they couldn't just have been bear strikes?" Sam asked, happily joining in Bobby's plan to calm Dean down.

"The marks were always in the same place on the torso, creating an intricate geometric pattern on the victims' chests, directly over the heart. No bear would be so premeditated, not to mention the fact that the designs are similar to some Native American patterns hundreds of years old linked to forest spirits." Bobby passed the file to Sam who flicked through the photographs, pausing to get a closer look of the ravaged bodies. The pilot was taxi-ing down the runway, then gathering speed. Dean squeezed his eyes closed, his mouth moving in silent words of what Sam could only imagine to be prayer and he waited until the first stomach flipping moment of flight had passed before handing the file to his brother. Dean did not take it, his eyes still firmly closed against the reality of what was happening.

"Dean? You want to look at these?" Still, Dean did not respond. "Dean? Closing your eyes will only make it worse. You'll feel every bump and air current more acutely," Sam sighed in frustration.

Finally, Dean cracked an eyelid open and said, stiffly, "Did you say it's the most popular training aircraft?"

"Sure did," Bobby confirmed, thinking perhaps they had finally found a turn in the road for Dean's fears. His joy died quickly with the typical sarcastic response.

"I guess that means the rookies must have crashed them a lot, too, huh? They must be really cheap to make." Dean absolutely refused to enter into any train of thought that might actually make his ordeal easier. "Jesus, we're all gonna die," he muttered, peering in terror over Sam's shoulder and out of the small window. "Oh my God!" he suddenly blurted out, leaning back rigidly in his seat.

Sam craned his neck further out of the window to try and glimpse what had set Dean off. "What?"

"There's a crack in the window… I can actually see a hole…" Dean started, his face screwed up as if he imagined willing hard enough would 'genie' him out of the plane and back onto safe ground.

Sam's hand hovered over the tiny crack in the Plexiglas. "I can't feel anything, Dean. It's not like we're flying at 30,000 feet anyway. Listen, why don't you take one of those sleeping pills? We're going to be up in the air for a couple of hours at least. By the time you wake up, you'll be back on solid ground." In Sam's mind, the idea seemed pretty sensible but, judging from Dean's incredulous expression, it was just the wrong thing to have said.

"And die in my sleep?! No thanks. I want to know when I'm plummeting in a nose dive to the ground, the engines failing, wind whistling through the cabin before hitting the tree line…" His voice grew fainter as Dean continued to fuel his agitation with his graphic realisation of the worst-case scenario.

Sam, finally admitting defeat, merely stated, "Yeah, I think sleeping through that is a great idea." He gave Bobby a look of surrender and decided to ignore Dean's snowballing for the moment and enjoy the beautiful views opening out as the Skyhawk gained altitude. The green canopy of trees became peppered with deciduous patches of orange and rust, occasionally giving way to the snake-like wind of rivers and the glint of lakes large and small, winking up at Sam like huge eyes. "It's beautiful," he breathed.

"Beautiful," Bobby echoed.

Perturbed by the sudden silence beyond the hum of the engine, Dean opened his eyes and glanced perilously over Sam's shoulder again. "Hmph, lacking some decent tarmac if you ask me," he noted, wryly. "Would have made a great road trip." Sam smiled, on the cusp of asking his brother how he felt, before deciding it was better to leave well alone. Dean hated a fuss and it was better not to draw attention to his helpless situation when it had taken him so long just to open his eyes. Once more, Sam settled back in his seat to enjoy the ride.

* * *

One hour into the trip and Dean might have retracted his refusal to take that sleeping pill when the engine made its first worrying sputter. To the two Winchesters, who had never been in a light aircraft before, there was nothing unusual about the sound. To Bobby and the pilot, however, it was something to be concerned about. The older hunter opened his mouth to check what was going on but thought better of it when he glanced across at Dean and Sam. The younger man was staring thoughtfully out of the window, clearly deep in his own thoughts while Dean's eyes were closed but Bobby didn't believe for a second it was actually in sleep. Trying to ignore the apprehension in his heart, the hunter sat back and tried to relax. 

The second sputter was too hard to ignore, especially when it was followed by a deafening silence throughout the craft. Sam turned questioningly to Bobby and Dean's eyes flew open. "What's that?" Sam asked, innocently. "Is it supposed to do that?" He turned to stare back at the rear of the plane as if expecting to see something to explain all of this.

Bobby didn't reply, his sense of dread already too great to make time for niceties. He called out to the pilot, "What's going on? Sounds like the engine's cut out."

Dean sat bolt upright in his seat, his hazel eyes wide with terror as he looked to Bobby to make everything okay. "What?! The engine's stopped? Are you kidding me?! This is some sort of joke, right?"

"It can't have done. I checked the gauge before we set out. There was more than enough for the journey!" His denial of the reality of the situation was hardly comforting and the agitated movements he made as he flicked switches and struggled to keep hold of the shaking controls only served to highlight how much trouble they were really in.

Dean gripped the arm rests, swallowing hard through his parched, constricted throat. "I knew it. We're going to die," he murmured and Sam couldn't help but wonder why the fact that Dean was right seemed to be giving his brother a sick sense of satisfaction.

Sam turned to Bobby. "Bobby, what's going on? What should we do?"

"Sit tight, Sam. Just sit tight. We might be able to glide in." Bobby prayed the pilot was experienced enough to manoeuvre the plane into a position for a bumpy but not fatal landing. He knew that if the plane were in his own hands, based on his limited stacked up flight hours, they probably wouldn't be so lucky. The plane tipped sickeningly and, for the first time, Dean's hand shot out in search of Sam's reassuring grip.

Sam had kept his cool up until that precise moment. Little had he realised how much his ability to keep himself together had depended on Dean's reactions and the need to keep him going. Dean had vented a lot of hot air but, with the touch of his hand, his older brother had communicated the fear that lived deep within his core. They were in serious trouble.

Bobby felt his stomach lurch as the plane plummeted downwards, the rush of air outside the cabin rattling the aircraft and buffeting it around. The pilot struggled to maintain some control over the flailing craft but was failing miserably. "Adopt crash positions! We're going down!" he shouted, never knowing that they would be the final words he spoke on this earth. Bobby could hardly tear his gaze away from the forest looming closer until the belly of the plane was grazing the tips of the highest trees.

Dean began to panic and dragged his hand free from his brother's. "Screw this! I'm not dying strapped into this thing. There's got to be parachutes in here or something!" Without warning, he fumbled awkwardly with the seatbelt and the first thing Sam realised, from his crash position, Dean was trying to stand up in the confined space of the cabin. The young Winchester's eyes grew wide with fright. "Dean! Sit down!"

Dean's gaze fell on his brother for a second, his eyes wild with panic. "Parachutes, Sammy! Where the hell are the parachutes?!"

"We're too low, Dean! It's too late! You've got to sit down!" Sam pleaded, praying that, for once in his life, Dean would actually heed him. Dean was never one to give up without a fight, but battles had to be chosen carefully and this was one he was doomed to lose. Unable and unwilling to see his brother crushed to death against the cabin wall on impact, Sam clawed at his own seatbelt and launched himself at Dean, trying to get him down onto the floor.

Both boys were flung to one side as the belly of the Cessna clipped the first crop of trees. Sam shoved Dean forwards and down onto the floor below their vacant seats, pressing him down so that he could not rise again. The next to go were the wings as they whipped against tree trunk after tree trunk, felling the first ones until the impact became too much and a deafening crack hailed their departure from the rest of the plane.

After that, the world became a blur as Sam and Dean covered their heads to avoid luggage and equipment landing on their heads. Time became nothing more than a series of lurches, bumps, desperate cries and then all encompassing blackness.

END OF PART ONE

Please review! I promise I'll turn all the warm fuzzies they give me into fuel for Dean & Sam whump!


	2. The Alpine Butterfly

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Thank you soooooo much to everyone who reviewed the first part. I wasn't expecting such a great response and so many of them! As promised, I have turned every warm fuzzy (of which I experienced many) into harm for our two favourite boys. I promise I'll start PM-ing y'all soon. Also, as a fickle fan of both Sam & Dean, it took me ages to decide who was going to get it worse in this story. I have started with Sam, but Dean fans never fear, the ever-steady older brother is in for a pretty bumpy ride as well. He's just got to suffer quietly for a little while! Mwhoarrr! (Dr. Evil laugh). Thank you once again and I hope this part quenches your thirst…it's only the beginning!

NOTE: The title of this chapter is the name of a climbing knot.

PART 2 : THE ALPINE BUTTERFLY

The first thing that Bobby was aware of was a creaking sound. It was soothing at first, a lulling rhythm of creak…bump…creak…bump. Then, as the haze cleared and reality kicked back in, the hunter felt a sense of dread. The blankness of unconsciousness peeled away, drawing out the instinct that something was not quite right and, as his mind gathered itself, Bobby realised that he was no longer flying in the air. If the sledgehammer headache was any indication, the beautiful Cessna he had been the delighted passenger of, had most definitely crashed.

The hunter opened his eyes, cautiously, almost afraid to know the extent of the damage to him and the craft. It took a moment for him to get his bearings. The first sensation, beyond the thumping headache, was of leaning forward and the pressure of the seatbelt constricting his abdomen. Slowly, Bobby took stock of his position. The plane had come to rest in a nose dive position, tipping its passengers and cargo forwards. As he looked out of the small window, Bobby's stomach lurched. Nothing but green confronted him, foliage pressed against the cracked pane and, when the plane creaked once more, the hunter knew they had never made it to the ground.

'They'. The word hit him like a bowling ball in the chest. Sam and Dean. Bobby fumbled awkwardly with his seatbelt, cursing when it appeared to be jammed. Finally, with an audible click, it came free and he flung one hand out to stop himself falling out of the chair. Bobby surveyed the rest of the plane, looking for any sign of the Winchester boys. Boxes and general paraphernalia littered the cabin floor, most of it sliding into a heap at the cockpit end. "Dean? Sam?" Bobby called out, praying that one of them at least would respond. Nothing.

Setting his feet apart, Bobby stood up and was instantly assailed by the throbbing in his skull and he gingerly touched a finger to the bloody swelling already forming on the right side of his head. A matching blot of blood was smeared on the wall where his head had hit it. Once his reeling brain had cleared sufficiently once more, Bobby surveyed the debris. "Dean?" he called again, more urgently. "Sam?" At that moment, the hunter caught sight of a pair of boots sticking out from the space in front of the seats on the opposite side of the aisle. It had been exactly where Dean and Sam had been sitting. "Dean?"

Bobby took a first step towards the pair of feet, testing the floor carefully as he went. The plane creaked again, followed by the ominous, loud crack of a tree trunk giving way beneath the plane as it lurched forwards. The hunter cursed loudly, taking a giant step to Sam's seat and gripping it tightly, his knuckles whitening as he wondered whether this was his last moment before the plane took its' last journey to the ground. To his relief, the craft settled itself on the remaining trees and Bobby slowly released the breath he hadn't realised he had still been holding.

Easing himself down onto the floor, Bobby shuffled himself closer to the pair of feet. "Dean?" he barked, surprising himself with the thinly veiled fear in his voice. "Dean, can you hear me?" He managed to straddle Dean's legs and move up his body. The young hunter was face down on the floor, one hand flung out beside his head. Gently, Bobby lifted Dean's shoulder and turned him onto his back, hardly daring to hope the young man was alive. Blood trickled freely down Dean's face and, on first inspection, it was almost impossible to tell the source. Bobby reached with a shaking hand to the boy's neck, searching for the carotid artery. After a moment, he found it, beating strong and steady beneath his fingertips. Bobby breathed a sigh of relief, "Thank God," he murmured to himself.

Fumbling in his jeans pocket, he produced a pack of tissues and tore one out. The hunter dabbed it against Dean's face, hoping to soak enough blood up to find where exactly he was injured. Almost hidden in the young man's hairline was a deep cut, no doubt the result of impact with the metal seat leg directly in front of him. Wounds to the forehead always bled profusely and Bobby tried to allay his fears of brain damage or haemorrhaging. If his first guess was a good one, they had crashed too far from any hospital to think of anything more realistic than some field dressings and warm blankets. Bobby pressed the tissue firmly against Dean's forehead once more and pried back one of his eyelids with the other hand. He did the same with the other, relieved to see that the pupils were equal and reactive to light.

"Dean?" Bobby called again, hardly expecting a response but hoping nonetheless. The young hunter remained motionless and Bobby scanned the rest of his body for further injuries. With the strength of his heartbeat, he was optimistic that the head injury was the worst Dean had to contend with. As gently as he could, Bobby turned Dean onto his side and into the recovery position. The last thing the poor boy needed was to wake up nauseous and vomit all over himself or, worse still, choke on it. Confident that Dean would be okay for the next few minutes, Bobby crawled backwards out of the space between the seats.

Now he had to find Sam. As the shock of the crash gave way to clear vision, Bobby found himself making sense of the last few fragments of normality before the plane had started plummeting. He felt the sickness rise in his throat as he remembered how Sam had stood up to placate Dean, forcing his older brother down between the seats. In those last moments, Bobby felt certain the younger Winchester had still been standing. Whatever shape he was in, it wasn't going to be good.

Bobby's heart raced, filled with dread and adrenaline, as he picked his way towards the cockpit and the pile of luggage and kit mounded there. "Sam?" he called, already knowing it was futile. The plane creaked menacingly and the hunter paused, his arms outstretched to steady himself. A second later, the creaking ceased and, thankfully, the plane did not move. As slowly as he could, Bobby lowered himself to a kneeling position on the floor and began carefully removing the bags and equipment from the pile. He distributed the items evenly across the floor of the cabin, hoping to prevent weighing the plane down and accelerating their inevitable demise amidst a heap of crumpled metal on the forest floor.

It was not long before the hunter's hand touched the soft fabric of Sam's shirt. Both relieved and filled with dread, Bobby struggled to remove the equipment obscuring the boy's body. Once it was uncovered, the older hunter started to wish he had left Sam under the pile. The boy looked dreadful. A smear of blood tracked down the wall above his head and it didn't take a genius to tell that he must have hit his head with a large degree of force. Beyond the minor injuries of a split lip and numerous small cuts and abrasions on his face and neck, Bobby could not immediately discern any further problems. He prayed that, with a stroke of luck, somehow Sam would get off lightly this time. Red puffiness was already emerging around his left eye, indicating that he would have one hell of a shiner in a day or so.

Bobby figured that the blow to the head would keep Sam out for some time and he glanced at his watch, hoping to determine how long he had been unconscious himself. At a rough guess, it had been a couple of hours at least. It would cause Sam considerable pain if he was awake when the hunter moved him so Bobby set about uncovering the entirety of his body in the hope of doing a complete inventory of the boy's wounds without hurting him unnecessarily. He released a pent up sigh of relief when no pools of blood seemed evident. Gently, the hunter moved his hands smoothly down the length of Sam's torso and legs, determined to leave no stone unturned.

Sure that the young Winchester wasn't bleeding out from anywhere mortal, Bobby lifted the boy's left wrist, turning it palm out so that he could find his pulse. Timing it against his watch, the hunter scowled. It was on the slow side but, given Sam's unconscious state and the trauma to his head, it was to be expected. Bobby looked around the small cabin, clearly remembering seeing a first aid point in one of the craft's wall panels. There it was, partially hidden by the remaining mound of equipment. Bobby tore the items out of the way and yanked the small door open. Based on their luck so far, he had half expected to find the medical kit missing so the hunter was grateful to find everything in its rightful place inside. Fortunately, field dressings were the most commonly used items and so there were plenty of gauze pads and bandages.

Bobby quickly returned to Sam's side, noting with concern how grey the young man's skin appeared beneath his own tanned hand. "Now, let's take a look at that head of yours, shall we?" Bobby murmured, half to himself and half hoping the injured boy would hear him somewhere in the depths of unconsciousness. Bobby gently ran one arm around Sam's back and the other around his neck then pulled him forwards. The boy's head rolled leadenly against the hunter's hand, his dark hair tangled and blood caked at the back. Sam looked peaceful and, were it not for the cuts and bruises on his face, anyone would think he was merely sleeping. Carefully, Bobby levered the boy's body up and forwards, cradling him against his chest and allowing Sam's forehead to come to rest on his shoulder. Bobby fumbled with the gauze pads as he tried to part the hair on the back of the Winchester's head while simultaneously preventing Sam from slumping back against the wall. It was difficult to find the source of the injury at first, the blood trickling all over the place. Finally, Bobby located a cut about two inches long behind Sam's right ear. It was not deep enough to be responsible for any significant brain injury but Bobby guessed he wasn't seeing the whole picture. A knock to the head did not always bring obvious signs and he would just have to wait until Sam woke up to discover the extent of the damage. "It's okay, kiddo," the hunter whispered, pressing the gauze tight against the wound and winding a bandage around his head.

Once he was convinced the bindings were secure, Bobby gently eased Sam back against the wall, putting his own jacket behind his head for comfort. He ran one hand lightly down the boy's face. "Sam?" He hadn't expected a response but it didn't make him feel any better that Sam's face did not so much as flicker. Bobby felt at a loss as to what to do next. He knew he ought to do something, consider ways of getting them out of the plane before the inevitable final dive to settle on the ground. But, with both boys unconscious, he struggled to think beyond looking after them. Still, the hunter instinct was never far away and eventually it kicked in full force. Even if Sam and Dean woke up right now, they would still be fucked unless he could get them down to the ground safely.

Well aware of how precariously the plane was balanced amid the tree trunks and branches, Bobby knew he could not just sit still. He had to see out of the windows and check how far the fall would be, work out if there was a way to climb down or winch themselves down one at a time. Even awake, there was no way either Winchester would escape without at least a concussion, which meant climbing down branches to the forest floor was out of the question. No, he was going to need rope and plenty of it.

Halfway through his endeavours to find the kit he needed to lower himself and the two boys from the plane, Bobby heard a groan from behind him. "Dean?" The groan was low and hoarse but distinctive enough in the confined space and the hunter shuffled across the floor as quickly as he could to the younger man's side. "Dean?" Dean's eyes were squeezed closed against the light and the pain no doubt pounding through his brain. Bobby put a steadying hand on his shoulder, urging him into wakefulness. "Dean? It's Bobby. Can you hear me?"

"Course," came the gruff reply. Dean's hands immediately went to his head, fingers quickly finding the tissue pressed against his forehead and gripped his skull tightly as he gingerly shifted himself into the start of a sitting position. "Ugh," he grimaced as his equilibrium altered and Bobby tightened his grip on his arm. "Easy there. Don't go shifting about too much."

He did not wish to alarm Dean but it was essential no one shifted their weight unnecessarily and bring the whole plane crashing to the ground. The last thing he needed was Dean trying to stand up and falling over heavily in the already precarious craft. "How's your head?"

"Feels like I've got a high school marching band practising in my brain. Other than that…" Dean's eyes remained closed for a moment longer, his hitched breaths evening out into more comfortable strides. Finally, he opened hazel eyes and attempted to focus on the blurry shape he took to be Bobby crouching beside him. For a second, it was all he could do to bring the world back into a form he recognised, then the realization of what had happened hit him. "We crashed!" Instinct forced him up into a fully seated position, his eyes wide and wild with horror.

Bobby pressed a heavy hand against Dean's shoulder, forcing him to remain still. "Yeah, and we're not done yet! Stay still or you'll get to enjoy the ride all over again!" His eyes bore into Dean's, refusing to accept anything less than complete compliance. The young hunter paused and swallowed, his battered brain slowly assimilating the new information. "Sam?" he asked, complete fear barely veiled in his bloodied face.

"He's unconscious, just like you were," Bobby replied, hoping to make his brother's condition more palatable. If Dean had woken up fine then law implied the same would happen to Sam. "I've bandaged him up as good as I could."

Dean craned his neck, trying to see past Bobby but the plane's seats obscured his view. "Where is he? Sam?!" Feeling the pressure of the older hunter's hand on his shoulder again, Dean reached up and tried to push his wrist away. The young Winchester's skin was cold against Bobby's, his colouring several shades paler, and it took little effort for Bobby to pull the hand away. "Dean, just rest for a moment. There's nothing you can do for him right now, except allow the world to stop spinning so violently so you can help out. Okay?" He levelled his gaze at Dean, waiting for the reluctant nod that finally came.

Whether through miraculous healing powers or sheer pig-headedness (Bobby settled on the latter), it was a mere five minutes before Dean was struggling to his feet, swaying against the seats but holding fast to ensure he didn't rock the plane too much. Bobby glanced up at him from his vantage point on the floor fiddling with ropes. Dean's face was ashen and his eyes still seemed glazed and sleepy. The hazel eyes widened when they settled on Sam and determination entered his step as he moved purposefully towards where his younger brother was propped up against the cabin wall.

Dean knelt down slowly, wincing when his head protested against the sudden change in altitude. "Sam?" He put one hand on the top of his brother's head, using the other to pry Bobby's bandage back. Peering at the cut, Dean pulled a face. "Got any more gauze? This one's soaked through."

"I figured we'd better pace ourselves. We have no idea how long we're going to be waiting and there isn't much gauze left. Just move it over a little. There's still a clean patch in the corner." Bobby knew how mean his comment must sound and wasn't surprised when he received a withering look from Dean.

"Jeez, you're all heart, Bobby. Remind me never to get sick round you." Dean muttered his disapproval but did as the hunter had suggested, casually noting, "A couple of stitches would sort it out quick smart. What do you say? Got a needle and thread in that kit of yours?"

Bobby rummaged around and produced some rather thick black thread and a vicious looking needle, holding it out to Dean along with an alcohol wipe. "You want me to do it?" he asked, sceptical about Dean's sewing skills in the likelihood of a concussion.

"I've got it," the stubborn Winchester replied but it didn't stop Bobby moving alongside him to check his progress. Dean shot the hunter an irritable look but quickly returned to his task of swabbing the area around the cut. Sam's long hair parted easily and Dean set about threading the needle. Whether it was Bobby's scrutiny over his shoulder or his concussion speaking, somehow he just couldn't seem to get the thick thread through the eye. On the fifteenth time, he cursed out loud, prompting Bobby to grab the needle from him and attempt it himself. "It's the damned thread. It's too big for the needle! I was doing just fine."

"Sure you were," Bobby jibed, a smile playing on his lips as he sucked the end of the thread. Dean let out a huff of breath, irritated that he was being proved incapable of doing something so simple. "Sewing's for girls anyway," he grumbled when Bobby held up the threaded needle triumphantly in front of his face. Dean made a grab for it but the hunter pulled it back, sharply. "No way! I'm not letting you near that poor boy with a needle in your hand! He'll be scarred for life."

"Don't be ridiculous. Give it to me," Dean demanded.

"I'm serious, Dean," Bobby replied. "You've been out cold for nigh on three hours and the first thing you want to do is stitch up your brother's head? Threading the needle was test number one and you failed spectacularly. I'm getting this one." He motioned for the Winchester to move aside which Dean did so with as much grace as could be expected in the circumstances. Hovering nearby, the young man took a moment to take in Sam's sallow complexion beneath the patches of blood. His bloodless lips were parted slightly and Dean tried to contain his concern when he realised how difficult it was to see the rise and fall of his little brother's chest. Sam's right hand lay bonelessly alongside his body while his left was resting across his thigh, where Bobby had dropped it after taking his pulse. Dean reached out and took it in his own, rubbing the skin as if willing his brother back into the world of the living.

He watched Bobby at work, his thick fingers making light and easy work of the wound. It was unsettling to see how still Sam remained throughout and a part of Dean wished he would wake up and start complaining about how much it hurt. Hurting was good, hurting showed he was alive and well enough to put up a fight.

As if on cue or sensing his brother's thoughts, Sam's head lolled a little to one side and his brow furrowed. Bobby paused in his ministrations and studied the young man's face intently for signs of consciousness. "I'd better get this stitched up before he starts feeling it."

"Looks like he already is," Dean noted, wryly. "Sammy? You hearing me in there? Wake up." He dropped his brothers unresisting hand and moved it to Sam's face, lightly patting his cheek. For a second, there was no reaction. Then Sam's eyes moved sluggishly beneath his closed lids and Dean could see his throat working. "Hey, Sam. Come on back to us, coz I'm not hauling your ass down to the bottom of this damned forest." He smiled nervously, not convinced that even he could pull out a joke just yet. Sam's eyelids flickered momentarily before opening for a brief moment then closing once more. Dean's smile had barely made it to his lips before it died again. "Sam? Come on, man. Wake up."

A low moan escaped the injured Winchester's lips and his forehead furrowed in a sudden response to the pain awakening in his body. Sam's lips parted and his breath came in laboured pants, alarming Dean, who looked anxiously to Bobby for an explanation, "What…?" Dean's attention was diverted once more when Sam mumbled something unintelligible, unable to find his voice in the confusing depths of unconsciousness. Bobby moved his callused hand down the boy's cheek, willing him to open his eyes. "Sam? Can you hear me? Open your eyes for me." His voice was gentle but gruff and grounding.

Sam shifted in discomfort, the movement lighting liquid fires the length his limbs. He gasped and his eyes shot open, staring straight at Dean who was crouched at his feet. He struggled to breathe, each inhalation sending pain shooting in his chest, each hitch of breath starving his body of much needed oxygen. Desperate to ease his distress, Dean grabbed both of Sam's hands in his own. "Sam, you gotta breathe! Breathe with me!" He focused his gaze on his little brother's frightened brown eyes, forcing him to work with him. "Come on, in and out, just like me. You can do it." Sam struggled to free himself from Dean's vice-like grip, panic telling him that he needed to be released but his efforts were weakened by trauma and lack of oxygen. He was no match for his older brother and Dean only tightened his grip around Sam's bony wrists. "Sam, stop fighting me! I'm trying to help you!"

Sam's breaths hitched once more, his face shimmying through a rainbow of colours from white to purple before Dean started to notice the blue tinge to his lips. "Sam!" he barked, determined not to lose his brother's focus. Sam's forehead creased in pain and Bobby fisted his hand and rubbed it against the boy's chest, hoping to alleviate the pain somewhat. At his wits' end, Dean leaned close until his forehead almost touched his brother's, pulling Sam's hands close against his chest. "Sam, I know it hurts but you've got to breathe or you're going to pass out. Breathe through the pain. Come on," he pleaded. Sam's brown eyes were shining with unshed tears of agony, boring into Dean, silently begging him to make it stop, to make the pain go away. It broke Dean's heart to see it and he wished with every bone in his body that he could take that burden for his little brother. Knowing it was a futile wish, he focused on showing Sam how to breathe in and out while Bobby rubbed his chest.

Slowly, Sam's gasps slowed into shallow breaths then slightly deeper ones. His coloration returned to something resembling normal and the agonised expression on his face eased into discomfort. Still, his breathing only deepened to a point before hitching in a sharp hiccup of air. Dean looked at Bobby for help. The older hunter moved his hands gently over the younger Winchester's chest. "Most likely a cracked rib or two," he said, playing down the possibility of several since he knew it would only make matters worse. "They'll hurt like a bitch for a while but he'll be okay."

Dean nodded, mutely, remembering vividly when he had fractured a couple of ribs in a fight with a demon five or six years ago. He had felt like an elephant had trampled on him for about a week. He sympathised with Sam that he to contend with such discomfort along with a concussion and at least one night spent in the woods. He didn't want to think about the fact that they hadn't even made it out of the plane onto solid ground yet. Deciding it was better to focus all his attention on his brother, Dean allowed Sam's hands to drop into his lap and brushed the hair back from his face. "You hear that, Sammy? A few cracked ribs never killed anyone, so quit acting like such a baby."

Sam's top lip curled into something resembling a smile as he struggled to maintain his strained breathing pattern. He peered up through heavy lids but the effort was all too much and slowly he closed his eyes, seeking retreat from the pain. His head hurt, his back hurt, his legs hurt and he just wanted it all to go away. Sam listened to Dean's voice grow deep and slow like a record playing on the wrong rpm. If he wasn't so tired he might have laughed. The voice seemed to grow louder and more insistent in his ears but he couldn't muster the strength to listen any more. Hands gripped his arms adamantly and Sam felt the momentary sting of a slap on his cheek but it was dwarfed by the thumping ache in his head and spine.

"Sam!" Dean watched in horror as his little brother's eyes slid shut. "Damn it, Sam. Stay awake! You've got to stay awake." He leaned forward, gripping Sam's arms in strong hands and shaking him as forcefully as he could in the circumstances. Sam's limbs flopped unresponsively in his brother's arms and, when Dean slapped him, his head swung lifelessly on his neck.

"Dean!" Bobby reached out and grabbed the young man's wrists, forcing his hands away from Sam's traumatised body. Dean sat back, trying to control his concern, gulping down breaths as if they were gold dust. He sat back on his haunches, disgusted at himself for beating Sam when he was already down. "Sorry, dude," he whispered, hoarsely. He glanced sheepishly over at Bobby but the older man was already intent on giving Sam's cut a final swab to ensure it was as clean as it could be. Dean had always appreciated that about his father's old hunting buddy. Bobby always inherently seemed to know when a moment was awkward and responded by doing just the right thing. Dean never felt like he owed the man an explanation or an apology, even though he sometimes just gave it anyway.

"Now what?" he asked, hoping Bobby would give him something useful to do.

"You any good at tying knots?" Bobby asked, holding up several lengths of rope. "There ain't a piece big enough to get us all the way to the ground." He jerked his head in the direction of the small cabin window.

Dean swallowed, his fear of flying (already a moot point) rapidly turning into a fear of heights. He cleared his throat uncertainly. "How far is it?" he managed, hoping his feelings weren't too evident in the strangled voice that emerged.

"Maybe forty, fifty feet," Bobby calculated roughly. "Maybe less but we don't want to run out of rope halfway down, do we?"

Dean slid carefully to the side of the plane and peered through the cracked Plexiglas pane. He couldn't see anything but coniferous branches all around him and bits of redwood bark. "That makes these damned big trees. You sure?" he asked, hopefully. "I can't see a thing out here."

"I dropped a metal pole and waited to hear it drop. Tangles in branches aside, I reckon my estimate is pretty accurate. You got another idea?" he asked, hoping to draw Dean's mind into something a little more constructive than blind vertigo. Dean looked at the older hunter as if he were some kind of alien for a moment then shrugged, watching as Bobby laid lengths of rope out on the floor. Finally, the hunter looked up. "So, you gonna tie some knots? This ain't a spectator sport."

Dean grimaced. "Knots were kinda Sam's thing. I was more the action man, you know." He raised his fingers like they were two pistols, a crooked grin on his face. Bobby did not appear to be amused and the smile quickly faded from Dean's lips. "But I'll give it a shot…if you want."

"With a preamble like that, I think I'll pass. I don't fancy plummeting to the ground when one of your pansy knots comes loose." Belatedly, Dean realised that Bobby had found his trusty baseball cap as he tugged on the peak before resuming his work. "Why don't you sort through that mess over there and find anything useful we need to pack up and take down with us?"

Dean nodded and set about his work, grateful to have an excuse to be at Sam's side once more. The younger Winchester looked like death warmed up Dean wished there was more that he could do for him. It seemed inhumane to just leave him there, leaning up against the wall he had been flung against. At that moment, Dean's heart sunk right down to his stomach and his head whirled with unwanted adrenaline. He was responsible for this.

Until now, the last moments before the crash had remained hazy in his mind's eye, little more than fragments in the chasms of blankness between. But now it was clear as day. Dean vividly remembered standing up in the aisle, gesticulating and shouting hysterically about parachutes. Then, he recalled feeling Sam's arm on his, his brother on his feet beside him telling him they were going down. Sam had pushed him to the floor, the impact knocking the wind out of him and his brother's weight on his lower legs. Then nothing. Sam had unbuckled his seatbelt to save him and now he was lying unconscious with an undiagnosed head injury…and it was all his fault.

Dean swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, pressing his trembling hands together. Were it not for him, Sam would be in no worse condition than he or Bobby were. He would be tying the knots and giving out his scholarly, snotty Stanford advice to them about the best way to get to the bottom of a tree. Dean cursed himself for being so out of control, then cursed Sam for being such a good brother and getting up in the first place. "Sammy, what have I done?" he whispered, taking in the bruised face and the hitch in his little brother's chest. "I'm gonna get us out of this, I promise. Just hang on, bro." Gently squeezing Sam's cool hand, Dean set about his task, rummaging through the equipment strewn around and piling useful items at one side. He would see Sam safe in a warm bed before the day was through if it was the last thing he did.

END OF PART 2

Go on, hit that button. You know you want to! Remember where the warm fuzzies go…


	3. Don't Look Down

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As a few diligent readers have reminded me, I completely forgot to clear up the little matter of the pilot in the previous chapter! I had truly planned to do a bit on that and then got carried away with Sam & Dean's trauma that I completely forgot. So, forgive the rather blunt little section sorting out his demise. Better late than never! Secondly, my Cessna is going to be a bit state-of-the-art, with a proper door between the cabin and the pilot.

Thank you as well to everyone who has been reviewing. I've been PM-ing the people I can. For Luca, coyote, nina, charli, lili, supernatural fan, sairah and Cora, a huge thank you for taking the time to let me know what you think! I have been completely overwhelmed by the support I have received so far and it has played a massive part in my dedication to this story. There's nothing like a good review. My friends have already commented on how cheerful I seemed to be this morning after checking my mail! Now, enough of my rambling and on with the show…

PART 3 : DON'T LOOK DOWN

Bobby pulled hard on the taut rope in his hand, checking his knots for the third time. The last thing they needed was to drop to the ground from the height they were currently at. Glancing over at Sam, he shoved aside the morbid thoughts about what would happen if their unconscious companion did not fare so well on the way down. Bobby hoped Sam would wake up in time to give them what little help he could in getting down. His gaze wandered to where Dean was gathering quite a pile of supplies. His forehead was creased in concentration but it had not escaped Bobby's notice how he looked to Sam every couple of minutes. Although he could not see the expression on the older Winchester's face, he could readily imagine the mixture of concern and care etched there.

"You planning on getting all that kit to the ground?" Bobby asked, a quizzical look in his eye.

Dean's brow smoothed as he looked up from his work, "As long as it doesn't mind a bumpy landing. How's the rope coming?" What little humour had remained in his voice from earlier was now completely sapped and Bobby recognised the familiar tone of a man with his business suit on. Where Sam was concerned, Dean did not tolerate mistakes and he brooked no unnecessary risks. It was evident that his every thought and ounce of energy was being poured into planning ahead, considering how they would make it through the night or, more importantly, how he was going to make sure Sam got through the night.

Dean's bouts of seriousness always made Bobby feel closer to John than at any other time. It was the no nonsense attitude that made one feel both safe and uneasy in equal measure. One always knew John would protect those he loved with his dying breath but what he was capable of doing in the name of that protection often passed over the line of sanity. Occasionally, Bobby glimpsed this same trait in John's eldest son and, if the truth be known, it frightened him a little. Dean was all youth and heated blood carefully masked behind an unruffled demeanour and his judgement was sometimes hasty. Bobby prayed he never saw the day when that errant judgement synchronised with the wild glint in Dean's heart.

As far as he could see, there was only one thing that caused the eldest Winchester to hesitate and move with caution. Sam. As long as his little brother was there, needing his protection, Dean would think twice before running headlong into a fight. Bobby had seen the boys reasonably regularly when they were children and he had noticed, even in their infancy, how Dean clung to the knowledge that his brother needed him. When John treated him roughly and sucked the joy out of life, dragging the boys around like pieces of luggage, Dean had always found a way to protect Sam from feeling it as strongly. He would always be his brother's shield and Bobby knew he wouldn't have it any other way. The older hunter could only imagine how this situation was cutting the young man up inside.

Bobby looked over at Sam, noting the unhealthy pallor of his skin and the uneven breathing that plagued every moment of his dark sleep. The cracked ribs were going to cause him insurmountable pain as Sam was lowered to the ground. There was no escaping that fact. Any movement would antagonise them but leaving him in the plane was unthinkable. Bobby wondered if it would be more humanitarian to try and manoeuvre the younger sibling out of the Cessna first while he was still unconscious. It might save him from some of the agony even if, as was most likely, the pain would jolt him awake on the way down.

"Do you think we should try and wake him again?" Dean asked, following Bobby's gaze to his unconscious brother.

Bobby chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating. "No. Let's get this rope secured and throw down the unbreakable equipment, then…we'll see."

Dean nodded, trusting the hunter's judgement, mainly because it followed his own thoughts. As much as he wanted to see Sam awake and functioning again, he knew it would be painful for him and blissful unconsciousness was the only relief he would get for a while to come. Dean examined the jumble of bags and equipment still strewn around where Sam was resting and he wished there was a way he could give his ailing brother a more comfortable place to lie down and recover. It only made it worse that his eyes kept tracking the stain of blood that was smeared down the wall, coming to rest just above Sam's head. It was bad enough that he couldn't make him more comfortable, but Dean hated the fact that his brother actually had to wake up in the same place and position as he had fallen in.

His attention focused on the front portion of the plane, Dean's heart suddenly leapt in his chest. "Bobby?" he asked, intrepidly.

"Yep," Bobby replied, not looking up from his task of knot-tying.

"The pilot? Is he…?" Dean's voice trailed off, hoping the older hunter would simply get the gist. He jerked his head in the direction of the door which Sam was slumped against.

At this, Bobby looked up. "The door was bust up pretty bad in the crash. I couldn't lever it open. I called out to him but there was no answer. 'Sides, you see that dent up there?" Bobby pointed to a swollen portion of the cabin door and roof section. It was heavily dented, punched in from behind and, where the lining had cracked, bits of leaf were clearly visible. "That there is a tree branch and a hefty one at that. From the angle we're sitting at, my guess is that we impaled the nose on a trunk in the final descent. I reckon, along with the trees were resting on, that trunk is the main thing stopping us from falling."

"Don't you think we should check on him?" Dean asked, wishing Bobby hadn't provided such a lucid image of how they were managing to stay alive. "I mean, he could still be alive and need our help."

Bobby shrugged. "You'd have to climb out of a window and somehow get round to the nose of the plane without missing a step. If he's alive, he can wait for us to get the ropes rigged up. If he's dead, then we've risked ourselves unnecessarily." His tone was gruff and matter of fact but he knew Dean would understand.

Dean nodded, "Still. Maybe if we moved Sam away from the door, together we could put a bit of muscle into it and get the door open. Sam could sure do with a change of position." His eyes travelled unwillingly to the blood stain once more. "We could lay him down in a sleeping bag."

Dean's eyes were wide and earnest and Bobby couldn't bring himself to say no. "Fine, but we've got to be careful. One step too far and we could unbalance the whole plane and we'll end up on the ground a lot faster than we planned."

"Sure," Dean acknowledged, tugging the roll of a sleeping bag out from his pile and unzipping it flat on the floor where Bobby had been working. Then, he crouched down beside Sam, feeling a pang of cruelty for waking him back into the world of discomfort and pained breathing. Dean cupped his hand against his brother's cheek, stroking his thumb across the pallid flesh. "Sam." He kept his voice low, not wanting to startle him if he was close to surfacing. There was no reaction, so he pushed harder. "Sam, wake up man." Still no response. Dean gripped his brother's face between both hands and shook gently as he spoke. "Come on, Sammy! Rise and shine!" A mumbled groan escaped Sam's lips and he tried to move away from the hands holding him still, but Dean refused to let go. "That's it, Sammy. Open your eyes for me." While his words were kindly meant, Dean kept his voice insistent, refusing to let Sam drift off again. Sam's hand fumbled against the pressure of his brother's against his face and Dean gripped it tightly, squeezing the cold fingers in encouragement. "That's it, come on, Sammy."

Sam's eyes opened and blearily met Dean's relieved gaze. His attention moved beyond his brother's head, taking in his surroundings. "Dean?"

"How you feeling?" Dean asked.

"What's going on?" Sam inquired, wearily leaning his head back against the wall, ignoring the question.

"We need to move you, bro. I'm gonna make you more comfortable, don't worry. Look, I booked you the penthouse suite," he gestured to the sleeping bag spread out down the aisle. "The views are great, nothing but nature, not a house in sight." Dean was pleased to see Sam's lips curl into a smile.

"What happened? Did we crash?" Sam asked, trying to make sense of the things he was seeing.

Dean looked a bit taken aback and he looked at Bobby for support. He knew Sam would be a bit out of it but he hadn't expected that he'd need to break the bad news to him. For a second, his mouth opened and closed like a fish before Bobby deftly stepped in to handle the situation. He knelt directly in front of Sam, making sure the boy could see him clearly. "Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings but you've hit the nail on the head. We're still inside the plane. It's lodged up in the trees."

"But don't worry about a thing," Dean chimed in. "We'll have you down on solid ground in no time."

Sam frowned, clearly struggling to comprehend what he was being told. "But…how?" He winced when he attempted to take a deep breath and a gasp escaped his lips.

Dean rested a gentle hand on his chest, "You okay, Sammy?"

"Hurts," Sam whispered while trying to breathe lightly through the pain.

"Do you think you can stand?" Bobby asked, sceptically. "We can bind your ribs better once you're lying down."

Sam looked back at the hunter, the thoughts in his head running as clearly across his bewildered face. He could feel the two men's eyes boring into him, willing him to acquiesce and Sam didn't want to disappoint them. So far he had been trying hard not to think about the dull pain in his lower back but, if they moved him, he would have to face it head on. The ribs and pounding headache were bad enough but he wasn't sure he could remain stoic if any more hurt was heaped upon him. Then again, the alternative was pretty grim. He couldn't just stay crumpled where he had fallen in the crash. Sam swallowed hard and nodded, instantly regretting the action. His head swam fuzzily as he did so and he could feel the bile rising in his throat.

Dean saw his brother grow visibly whiter. "Sam? Are you sure?"

"Yes," came the hoarse reply, barely audible at all. Brown eyes met hazel ones but Sam quickly flinched away, knowing that Dean would see the pain and uncertainty thinly veiled beneath.

Bobby moved around to Sam's right hand side and Dean remained at his left, each man looking to the other to ensure they were in position. Bobby tilted his baseball cap further back on his head and peered into Sam's face. "Okay soldier, let's get you on your feet." He reached one arm under the young Winchester's shoulder and across his back, feeling Dean's arm bracing him in the same way. Sam's torso tensed at his touch and he hissed in a sharp intake of breath. "Easy now," Bobby reassured. "Just let us know any time you need to stop."

"Mmhmm," Sam squeezed out through pursed lips. It was taking every ounce of his rapidly decreasing energy to will his body into action. He tried to take as much of his own weight as he could but Sam felt as if he had no control over his limbs at all. Bobby and Dean had his arms over their shoulders and they slowly elevated him, keeping his body as steady as they could. Sam bit his lip, desperately trying to withhold a cry as the cotton wool throbbing in his head sharpened into white hot lances thrusting through his brain. The pain ricocheted around his skull and shot down his back, coming to rest at the base of his spine. Sam closed his eyes reflexively, feeling the need to press the heels of his hands to his eye sockets but his arms were immobilised by his companions. A moan escaped his lips and, beneath closed lids, he felt like he was spinning at tremendous speed. Sam could feel his legs giving out under him but he was helpless to stop it.

"Woah there! I've got ya, Sammy," Dean assured his brother, shoring his own body up against Sam's to stop him from falling.

"I don't feel so good," Sam whispered. He opened his eyes, hoping that it might slow the world down around him but the brightness only made him feel even more nauseous.

Bobby gripped him more tightly and looked over at Dean, willing him to continue. "Okay, Sam. Let's get you lying down, shall we?" He jerked his head in the direction of the sleeping bag and added, to Dean. "Let's finish this." Dean nodded and the pair pulled Sam's struggling body away from the wall where he had been leaning in a semi-standing position.

As they took the first step, the plane creaked and both men paused, frozen to the spot as they waited to see if the Fates were shining on them today or ready to see them die. The craft seemed to sway a little and the sickening sound of something cracking somewhere below them was enough to bring even Sam back to his senses a little. "Oh my God," he breathed.

"Go!" Bobby commanded, propelling the two boys forwards with him, spreading their weight across the floor as he brought them all down to the floor. Sam's breath was almost knocked from his body with the force but that was nothing compared to the fire exploding in his injured ribs. Black dots clouded his vision and his ears rang hollowly. Dimly, he acknowledged Dean and Bobby extricating themselves from his boneless limbs. Sam sucked in a breath, the pain doubling with each intake and he could do little more than hiccup. His body felt heavy and his lungs seemed to struggle to expand the thick muscle and flesh of his chest. He opened his eyes when he felt a hand on his face and saw Dean peering down anxiously at him. "Talk to me, Sam!"

"Can't…breathe…" he managed, hiccupping each breath to try and alleviate the crushing pain he was feeling.

"You've got to breathe through it. You can't stop breathing, Sam. That's not an option. You've got to deal with the pain. Come on, I know you can do it." Sam felt Dean's hand on his chest, willing him to concentrate on drawing in oxygen, Sam could feel himself getting light-headed but something deep down told him Bobby and Dean needed him conscious if they were going to make it out of the plane. He didn't want to let them down. With what little strength he possessed, he tried to follow his brother's instructions. He used to be good at this, at managing pain, when they had been on the road with dad. Never as good as Dean though. No one knew his brother had been caught until he dropped unconscious once the fight was over, but Sam had known how to take a hit. It felt like the short time he had spent at Stanford had already weakened his constitution somehow. How many times had he, his brother and his dad suffered a broken rib or two? Breathe through the pain, Sam commanded his body.

"That's it," came Dean's steady voice over the rushing in his ears. "You're doing good, just keep it nice and easy." Sam could feel his brother's hand held gently over his chest, drawing his attention to the action of his lungs expanding and contracting. He cracked his eyes open as the pain began to recede a little, staring up at Dean's face. He could see the gentleness his brother was always so reluctant to show and, Sam wondered if it was a glimmer of anxiety hidden in the depths. Was he in worse shape than he had thought?

"Hey, Sammy. You feeling a bit better?"

Sam managed a nod. "Yeah…" he whispered.

"Are you good for a minute while I help Bobby get the door open?" Dean asked, ready to stay at his brother's side if he needed him. Sam nodded carefully to avoid aggravating his still throbbing head. Dean stared at him hard for a moment, his hand steadying on Sam's shoulder and peered into his brother's face, looking for signs that he was faking. Assured that he wasn't going to pass out in the next few minutes, the older Winchester set about helping Bobby in his attempts to pry the door open between themselves and the pilot.

Bobby had used a piece of bent metal from one of the damaged seats and had jammed it hard between the wall panel and the door. The door was already bulging under the pressure and Dean could see it was going to give way any second. Bobby gestured with his head to a second piece of metal at his feet. "Can you lever from the bottom. That should do it." Dean tucked the narrowed end of his piece into the same side of the door further down and leaned into the other end. Almost instantly, the pair could feel the thin panels giving way under the force and Dean turned himself into a better position where he could really put his shoulder into the action. Suddenly, with an ear-splitting crack, the latch gave way and the two men were confronted with the business end of a tree branch.

"Woah!" Dean exclaimed, pulling coniferous fronds out of his face and moving back. As he did so, the plane wobbled, sending him flying into Bobby who caught him before Dean had the chance to hit the wall and unbalance the craft once and for all. "Jesus!" Dean blurted out as the plane blessedly seemed to right itself once more. "The quicker we're out of this damned thing the better!"

"I hear you," Bobby added. "Well, hate to say I told you so but…" He thumbed in the direction of the tree branch which was decorated with spots of blood and Dean didn't want to spend too long considering what the spongy pink matter was clinging to it in parts.

"At least we know for sure," Dean said, philosophically, trying not to the picture the pilot's demise too clearly. He pushed aside the branch leaves and attempted to squeeze past it into the cockpit, examining the view beyond. "If we can get out onto the nose of the plane, we could probably attach the ropes securely to one of the trees without too much trouble."

Bobby followed his lead. "Can we? Get through there?" He didn't need to say it but they both knew the score. It wasn't a case of whether they, able-bodied as they were, could get through, but whether they could get Sam through in his current condition. The poor kid was struggling just to stay conscious and breathing and Dean knew how hard he was trying. It was hard enough for Sam to stand, let alone squeeze past a giant tree and navigate his way across the nose of a plane to grab a rope and get down to the ground.

Dean thought for a second, trying to imagine this plan in motion. "Well, I'm not seeing another option. If we try and drop the rope from the cabin door at the side, the weight will unbalance the plane too much and not even one of us will make it down in one piece. The tail is too light. It's probably not supported by much. This way, we get off the plane as quick as we can and rely on the tree trunks. They're our best and safest bet."

Bobby nodded in agreement. "Plus there might be a fork further down for Sam to rest."

Dean paused and tried to imagine getting his injured little brother even that far without killing him. He only hoped the ribs were the worst of their concerns. He looked back over his shoulder at where Sam was lying, still but for the laboured way his chest rose and fell. His eyes were closed but Dean knew he was far from being asleep. "Let's get this over with," he stated with determination. He couldn't afford to lose his nerve.

"How're your climbing skills?" Bobby asked, sceptically.

Dean glared at him, defensively. "They're good enough, thanks."

Bobby raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, no need to get tetchy. I'm just remembering a certain incident back in Montana with your dad…"

"Yes, let's remember that shall we?" Dean said, sarcastically. "If I recall that was more to do with the birdy-thing at the top that came out of the blue and attacked me!"

"Whatever you say," Bobby placated. "I'm just offering twenty years of abseiling experience to those…a little less experienced."

Dean's face was stern and the hunter knew there was no way he was going to back down. "Yeah well this isn't a cliff face. It's a tree, and I am pretty damned good at climbing trees when creatures of the night aren't flying in my face, okay?!" Bobby nodded his response, unwilling to get embroiled in the matter further by putting his foot in it with another word. "Good, that's settled then." Dean affirmed, expecting a bit more of a fight than that. "So…"

"I'll go get you the rope," Bobby suggested. He knelt down beside Sam and coiled the connected pieces of rope round his elbow and left hand. He took the opportunity to check on the youngest Winchester's state. The boy's eyes were squeezed shut and Bobby could see that he hadn't yet won the battle against the pain raging through his body. The hunter only hoped he succeeded before they had to move him again.

By the time he returned to the front of the plane, only Dean's foot was visible through the gap between the door and the branch. He had succeeded in manoeuvring himself onto the nose of the plane without disturbing the equilibrium too much. Bobby didn't feel comfortable with the sharp slope of the nose between Dean and the closest solid bit of tree. "Dean? You okay there?"

Dean gingerly adjusted his position on the forward part of the nose to turn back and see Bobby. "Yep, think so. Just, uh, trying not to look down," he attempted a smile. A sweat was already breaking out on his upper lip and the young hunter knew it wasn't because of the exertion. Heights had never been his thing and these trees were huge mothers. He ran the back of his hand across his lip and then up through his hair. He needed to do this. More importantly, Sam needed him to do this and he wasn't about to let him down.

He extended his arm to reach the coil of rope Bobby was holding out to him. "Okay…I'm going to try and get to that branch there," Dean said, hardly convincing himself let alone anyone else. He pointed to a branch about five feet from where he was sitting.

Bobby narrowed his eyes as he followed the line of Dean's finger. "Are you sure?"

"Um, yes?" Dean almost questioned, for the first time ready to hear the older man's sage advice.

Bobby whistled through his teeth. "Looks deceptive, closer than it really is. Tie the rope round your waist and chuck the extra back to me. If you slip, I'll have got you. If you make it, you can untie your end and secure it to the tree."

Dean nodded, grateful to have Bobby at his side. He wouldn't want anyone else at the other end of that rope. As he drew the rope around his waist, he realised how badly his hands were shaking and tying the knot took double the time in slippery, sweat-soaked fingers. Dean cursed his belligerent body under his breath. If Sam were in this position he would be cool, calm and collected. Finally, three ridiculously childish knots later, Dean felt sure he wasn't going to come loose and he took a deep breath before heaving himself up into a crouching position. The nose of the plane complained in like and Dean spread his fingers across the smooth metal, trying to find some kind of purchase until the rocking motion ceased. He heard Bobby's voice behind him, "I've got ya, just take it slow." Dean nodded, not trusting his voice to make any kind of noise beyond a squeak, and edged forwards keeping his eye on the branch – his salvation. His mouth felt dry and fuzzy and the drop below him seemed like some surreal image from a Disneyworld ride. The nose of the plane seemed shinier and more slippery than it had a second ago and Dean realised he was almost at the sharpest point in the curve. He couldn't afford to inch forward any further without sliding down the nose and right off the end. He would have to reach out to the branch and make a leap towards it. He puffed his cheeks out as he mentally prepared himself for doing his first imitation of a flying squirrel. "You got that rope tight, Bobby?" he asked, feeling perilously close to turning back.

"Yep, don't worry about a thing," came the reassuring reply.

"Then here goes," Dean called back. He lined his hands up in front of his face, walking himself through what he was about to do, imagining grasping the sturdy tree brunch ahead of him. Glancing down at his feet to make sure his push-off was still on solid metal, Dean ignored the palpitations in his chest and took the plunge. The movement went by in a blur of motion sickness and adrenaline. Then, there he was, dangling from the branch with the plane now a good few feet from him. For the first time in many months, Dean started to appreciate his upper body muscles as they were forced to work. Heat spread through his arms and, for a frightening moment, he wasn't sure he had the strength to lift his own body. Dean groaned through gritted teeth as he propelled his body upwards until his arms were looped over the top of the branch. Feeling his feet dangling in thin air almost took its toll on his mental state and the young hunter's mind whirled with horrific visions of his body sailing through the air like a bird only to land broken and lifeless at the foot of the tree.

Just as his waking nightmare was getting the best of him, Dean heard Bobby's concerned voice hailing him and felt the rope on his waist tighten. It was just enough to yank him back to reality and remind him of how important this task was, for Sam as well as Bobby. "I'm good," he shouted as he found some deep reserve of energy to swing his body and then one leg over the top of the branch and pull himself upright. It didn't feel all that much more secure on top of the branch as it had underneath it. Dean's feet still dangled in empty air with a dangerous drop beneath. However, the branch was wide enough to sit astride comfortably and it showed no sign of give even with the weight of a grown man atop it. "I'm up!" he called back to Bobby, "I'm going to tie the rope to the branch. Then we're good to go." Dean could hear the blood pumping through his brain in a rush of relief at having succeeded in his job.

Bobby's voice was filled with pride as well as relief as he replied. "I'll tie the rope off on the window frame for now, then I'll go back in and get Sam and the kit." Dean couldn't help the stutter in his brain as he imagined how the hell Sam was going to get over to him in his condition. The kid was already suffering enough and this had been a tough task even for an able-bodied man. But there was no other way.

* * *

Sam was floating somewhere between waking and sleep, his mind exhausted from the exertion of concentrating so hard on keeping control of his body. His body, on the other hand, was nagging at the corners of his brain, reminding him of the pain he was constantly trying to suppress. Still, somehow he had managed to win that battle, just as long as he didn't think about it too hard. It taken a long time but Sam had found a comfortable pattern of breathing, seeking out the damaged ribs with each inhalation until he knew exactly where to stop.

He was lying peacefully in the warmth of the sleeping bag, trying to make sense of the alien sounds around him when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Sam? You awake?"

Sam cracked his eyelids open and looked up at Bobby's face hovering above him. "Yeah." He didn't bother even attempting a joke about sleeping in his condition because he knew it would fall on concerned ears and have the wrong effect.

Bobby nodded, visually checking the young Winchester over for himself. "You've got a bit more colour back in your cheeks. How's the breathing?"

"Still hurts but I think I've got it," Sam replied, not wishing to let Bobby know that speaking only aggravated his already laboured breathing pattern. "What's going on? Where's Dean?" he asked, suddenly feeling panicked that he hadn't seen his brother in a while.

"Dean's just fine. He's got us a passage out of this thing," Bobby looked around the debris of the cabin with distaste.

Sam caught the expression and raised his eyebrows. "This 'thing'? What happened to loving the craft and all that stuff you were talking about earlier?"

"That was before we crashed. I'm reassessing my opinion of flying." Bobby grinned and tugged on the peak of his cap. He hadn't realised how anxious he had been about the young hunter until Sam had started showing signs of lucidity. To be having a conversation of any kind was like a weight had been lifted off the older man's chest. Plus, the fact that Sam could still recall a discussion they had shared before the crash was an excellent sign about the severity of his head injury. No matter how tall the Winchester boys grew, Bobby always felt a sense of responsibility for their welfare. Now, without a father, he had been feeling it more than ever. Some days, and this was sure one of them, Bobby swore he could feel John's dark eyes boring into his back at every turn, judging and chiding.

"You and Dean could form a "Flying – Just Say No" club. I bet with your stories you'd get a few joiners," Sam noted with a wry smile.

"Yeah, maybe, but he can be president." Bobby glanced back at the door to the cockpit, imagining Dean sitting astride the branch wondering what the hell was taking so long. "Sam, listen. We've got a way down but, I won't lie to you, it's not going to be comfortable." The smile slid from Sam's face and Bobby felt terrible for being the bearer of unwelcome news.

Sam sensed the man's discomfort and tried to hide his own concerns about what he was going to be asked to do. "Aw, don't be so 'glass half empty', Bobby. It's a way down. I'm in." He had hoped a few of those words might have found their way into his own heart but they skimmed emptily across the surface, leaving Sam feeling worse than before.

"Okay," Bobby drawled in a dreadful imitation of a deep Southern accent. "There're two options. You can climb down the tree with a rope around you for safety…" As he spoke, his eyes wandered over Sam's injured body.

"Or?" Sam chivvied, feeling uncomfortable under the hunter's unwelcome scrutiny. He hated being a burden to anyone and moments like this only made his situation feel even more crappy.

Bobby paused, considering whether to even bother giving Sam the option when the right choice seemed pretty damned clear to him. "Or we can lower you on the rope ourselves."

Sam digested these two suggestions. Bobby had been right, neither of them were going to be comfortable at all. The truth was he could barely lift his arms to shoulder height without recoiling in pain from the movement it caused in his chest. The prospect of having to hang from a branch or even move his weight along one was almost impossible to contemplate. On the other hand, he was the tallest of the three hunters and, while he hadn't been to the gym in a while, Sam knew he was in pretty good condition physically. Normally that would be a good thing but over six feet of compact muscle for two men to lower from a tree was not going to be an easy task. On top of that, there was the added humiliation of being so useless he had to be lowered like a piece of cargo on a crane, unable to help or even do something remotely useful.

"You think about it while I get our kit sorted," Bobby offered, knowing the answer was already staring them in the face but remembering that Sam hadn't spent the same amount of time considering these options as he had. It was going to take a lot of will power for the kid to spur himself on.

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean had succeeded in lowering the more fragile bags of equipment down to the bottom of the tree while Bobby had flung the other sleeping bags and canvas tent covers down through the foliage for retrieval once they reached the bottom. It had been a useful job as it gave them a clearer idea of how far down they were truly going as the bent foliage under the plane still obscured their view almost completely. In fact, the pressed canopy below them looked almost solid enough to walk on were it not for the occasional glimmer of light showing through when a breeze lifted the leaves.

When Bobby returned for Sam, he was already shifting himself into an upright position on the sleeping bag, one arm cradled across his chest. He winced with every tiny movement but he knew it had to be done. He kept reminding himself to breathe through the pain and it seemed to be working so far, although God knew if that would still be the case halfway down a tree.

Bobby supported his arm and gently guided him up into a standing position. He was entirely ready for Sam to collapse again, as he had done earlier. The young man's legs wobbled beneath him and he leaned heavily on the hunter's shoulder as they made their way towards the cockpit. Bobby could hear the catch in his breath at every twinge but Sam stoically followed his lead, squeezing past the branch. Bobby released him when there was no more room for him. "Careful, son. It's slippery out there. Just wait for me."

Sam nodded curtly, only able to spare a second's energy to let Bobby know he had heard him. His fingers whitened in his grip on the door frame and he moved his feet slowly with deliberate steps until he was safely through and past the bulk of the branch. Released from the heat of Bobby's stare and not yet in Dean's eye line, Sam took the moment to allow the pain to settle. He panted roughly, desperately fighting the light-headedness threatening to send the world into blackness. Sweat stood out across his brow and the site of Bobby's stitches throbbed mercilessly. To make matters worse, his back was starting to play up again. Sam reckoned he must have bruised his spine pretty hard on impact with the wall. Still, looking on the bright side, bruises would get better and he had experienced plenty of them in his hunting past. Bruises he could deal with.

Sam looked up at the journey he had yet to make and swallowed nervously. The shiny metal nose of the plane and the feeble looking rope rigged along it looked insurmountable. Despair filled every crevice in his body and he was no longer able to suppress it. Sam could hear Bobby scrambling through the cockpit after him and then the hunter's firm hand on his shoulder, the way his body dipped under the pressure only serving as a timely reminder of how weak he really was. "Come on, let's get you rigged up."

"Sammy?" Dean's voice sailed across the air and Sam felt a little more bolstered for hearing his brother's familiar voice. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," Sam echoed, unconvincingly. Bobby was easing him into a seated position from where he could shuffle along the nose of the plane to the tip. The unexpected lowering and the plane's groan in response began to make the young Winchester feel nauseous. He closed his eyes, trying to will the bile back down into his gut. With the lapse in his concentration, Sam's foot shot from under him and he felt it slide to the side, swinging into empty air. "Jesus!" Bobby exclaimed, his arms vice-like on the young man's arms as he pulled him back.

The sudden jerk frustrated Sam's breathing pattern and he hitched his breath in too hard, sharp tendrils of pain lancing through his chest like fragments of glass. He gasped, trying to find a comfortable way to get the air he so desperately needed but it only seemed to make things worse. Blackness threatened to take over but Dean's voice held him back and he summoned every ounce of power he had to get through the pain.

"Sam!" Dean saw his brother slip and it sent his brain spinning out in panic. He saw how his little brother's body tried to blindly right itself through the pain, his long legs trying to find purchase on the smooth metal of the nose. Bobby's arms were looped under Sam's and wrapped around his chest. "Watch his chest!" Dean instructed.

"I'm trying but there's no other way to keep him steady!" Bobby shouted back, his voice laced with and frustration. "Sam, just rest for a second. You're okay. Just sit still."

Sam ceased his floundering, finally realising that he was out of harm's way and that Bobby's hands were easing off his chest. He spread his fingers flat across the warmed metal and stared down at it until the dots danced out of his vision. His breathing evened out once more and the world came back into focus. "I'm okay," he whispered.

"You ready to go on?" Bobby asked, anxiously. "Coz we can wait,,,"

"No, I'm good," Sam insisted, already pulling himself back into a crouching position. "What have I got to do?" His voice sounded faint even to his own ears but there was no backing out now.

"You don't gotta do anything, bro," Dean called out. "Just let Bobby tie the rope round you and we'll lower you coz there's no way you're climbing down this tree when you can't even stand straight." Sam didn't bother to argue. Dean was right and he was grateful that he didn't need to say it himself.

Bobby reeled the rope in until he had just enough to tie around his charge, the rest of it he coiled and tossed over to Dean. "This might be a bit uncomfortable," he said, knowing it was probably the understatement of the century to a man with cracked ribs. He only hoped the journey to the forest floor didn't aggravate any cracks into clean breaks and cause further damage. He ran the rope under Sam's arms so that it cut across the top of his chest then tightened the knots hard across his front. The young man winced with the new pressure and the protestations of his injured ribs. "Sorry," Bobby murmured, knowing there was no other way.

"S'okay," Sam assured him. "I just wish I wasn't such a burden."

"Hey, don't you get all guilty on me. You're doing great. Just let us know if you need to stop." Bobby could feel the way Sam still leaned into him for support and the hunter was not convinced he was in any shape to be doing this. If only there were another option open to them, he would gladly take it. Next, Bobby guided Sam to the very edge of the nose where the curve steepened and was impossible to stand on. Sam peered downwards, trying to get some sense of the drop below them. He swallowed again, his throat parched. Every fibre of his being told him to get away from the edge but he knew it had to be done.

"You're gonna do great, Sammy," Dean encouraged, his face now close enough for Sam to see his features properly. Propped up on the branch a few feet away, his hazel eyes were bright and smiling. It was like a life raft to his struggling little brother and even managed to tease out a small smile from Sam. "Just remember, I've got the other end of this rope and I won't let go, no matter what."

Bobby tugged on the rope round Sam's chest to check it wouldn't come loose, his hand darting out to steady the boy when he lost his balance with the jerking motion. "Sorry. Now, Dean's got one end of this rope tied securely to the tree, then once we've got you started over the edge of the plane, I'm going to join him in the tree and together we'll feed you rope until you're at the bottom. Just give us a shout when you touch the ground and untie yourself. We'll bring the rope back up and sort ourselves out. Got it?" Bobby didn't like the glazed look filming Sam's brown eyes nor the muted nod he received in acknowledgement. "Okay, we're good to go!" Bobby called to Dean.

Dean's gaze locked with Sam's. "Just remember, I've got you, Sammy. You can do this." Sam looked like he was about to topple and it pained Dean to know Bobby was about to practically push the boy off the edge of a plane. He watched anxiously as the older hunter helped Sam sit then slide down the curve of the nose until his legs dangled freely in the air. Sam's hands gripped the rope tightly and he bit back a cry of pain when his chest began to feel the stretch of his body and the pressure of the rope against each aching rib. He ignored the way the blood rushed in his ears and concentrated solely on breathing in and out. He kept reminding himself this would all be over soon. They would be on solid ground and they would be rescued. All this would be a distant memory – the pain, the nausea, if he could just get through this.

Slowly, Dean's voice receded from him and Sam was alone with the sound of snapping twigs as his feet pushed through the foliage and the rustling of the leaves in the breeze. Just breathe, he reminded himself. In and out, in and out, in…out.

END OF PART 3

I know that was pretty long-winded with not enough Sam & Dean contact but all will be righted from now on. I hope I didn't bore you too much!

And on that note, I have to apologise for getting the next chapter out a bit slower. I'm going to NYC for a week, so I won't be able to work on it until I get back. But never fear, my trusty notepad will not be far away (if I can remember how to write longhand anymore!) and even the beauty of the New York skyline won't allow me to forget about the poor old Winchesters and Bobby stranded in the wilderness!


	4. Where There Are Sparks

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Back from NYC! Sorry for the delay; it's taken longer than I thought to get back into the routine with work etc. Once again, a huge thank you goes out to the people who have been so kindly reviewing. It means more to me than anything else that I've written something people have responded to and are enjoying. Thank you so much for all your thoughts and encouragement. You're all stars! I'm truly sorry you've had to wait so long.

I should add that this chapter has been like squeezing blood from a stone for some reason so I'm glad it's done but I can only apologise if it lacks any dynamism! I think I've got my mojo back in time for the next chapter & Sam won't be pleased!

PART 4 : WHERE THERE ARE SPARKS…

Dean watched sadly as the rope sank lower and lower, taking his little brother with it. He wished there had been a better way to get Sam to the ground or that there would be someone there to look after him when he made it to the bottom. Once Sam was clear of the plane, Bobby had made the leap over to join Dean in the tree, managing to climb atop the branch with a lot more grace than his younger companion. "I hope you were right about the length of this rope," Dean noted. Bobby chose not to answer but kept his grip tight on the rope, both men letting it out a bit at a time.

After an age of waiting, the rope went slack in their hands and the two men exchanged hopeful glances. Bobby began reeling it back up while Dean leaned down over the branch and shouted, "Hey, Sam? Are you okay down there?" He waited for a response but was met with only his own voice echoing around the forest. That disturbed him even more, reminding him of how remotely they had crashed. He prayed someone was already looking for them but a niggling part of his brain wondered if they would. "Sam! Answer me!" Again, his voice came back to him, mocking and tinny. "Come on, man, you're scaring me!"

Bobby paused, listening for Sam's reply but hearing nothing either. "His ribs were bust up pretty bad. Even if he's answering you, he's probably not strong enough to shout loud enough for us to hear." He was speaking the truth but the hunter also knew Dean was starting to get panicked and that would be disastrous for the pair of them getting safely to the ground. "You go next." Bobby handed the rope to Dean, watching him tie a crude knot across his chest. "Jesus, Dean! You got a death wish or something? You'll kill yourself with a crappy knot like that holding you up."

Dean pulled a face, impatience getting the better of him. "Just get me down there," he grumbled, allowing Bobby to lean in and do a better job. His descent to the ground was going to be much easier and quicker than Sam's and his brother's silence was disturbing at best. Once he was sure the rope was secure, Dean eased himself down through the first line of foliage, preparing to use the tree to push away and down, like an abseiler. Twigs and leaves snapped and rustled as his feet pushed through them, opening up the next section of forest to be scaled. He knew he had to be careful, watch his footing to avoid becoming another injured man, but Dean's every thought lay with his wounded brother somewhere at the forest floor.

* * *

Sam was hardly aware of how close to the ground he was until his feet touched and his legs folded weakly beneath him. Simply staying conscious had sapped him of all his strength, each second passing like an agonising hour. Unable to hold himself upright, Sam's breath was forced from his lungs as he slumped forwards onto the ground. Something stopped him from slipping into the bliss of unconsciousness though, the nagging knowledge that Dean and Bobby needed that rope back. Slowly, his senses came back to him and Sam cracked his eyes open to see leaves scattered around him, his hand resting in them and tree trunks stretching as far as the eye could see. Summoning what little strength he had left, he pulled his hand towards him and reached down painfully around his stomach which was pressed to the ground. He fumbled awkwardly with the knots there, his fingers too weak to maintain a firm hold on the smooth cord. Sam cursed to himself, idly wondering how long he could keep the black dancing dots at bay to finish his task. Finally, his trembling fingers managed to work the first knot free, immediately loosening the next and he managed to roll enough to release the rope completely. Sam allowed his body's natural momentum to slide him onto his back and he lay staring up at the canopy of leaves above him. The rope hovered above his head now and Sam felt a wave of relief wash over him as he realised Dean would be here soon. He needed to see him, he wanted his big brother to tell him everything was going to be okay. Then, his mind began to wander to the dancing leaves overhead and the way the green foliage melded and parted to allow thin chinks of sunlight through. He felt tired and his eyelids felt heavy. Sleep was within reach and Sam didn't have the strength to stay awake anymore.

* * *

Dean had been terrified of what he would find when he reached the ground and it had doubled the agony that he couldn't tend to his little brother until Bobby was down as well. Once the older man was safely on solid ground, Dean didn't hesitate. He ran to Sam's side, anxious that his calls had gone unanswered so far. In the fading light, his little brother's face looked even paler than it had before and the flecks of blood marked his skin like black ink. Dark lashes dipped against cool, blanched skin and Sam's brow was smooth as if he was finally free of his discomfort. Dean felt physical pain just to look at him, seeing a six year-old boy in the depths instead of a grown man. Swallowing his dread, he reached out and placed two fingers against Sam's neck, closing his eyes momentarily as the relief washed over him. It was there, strong and steady beneath his fingertips.

Guilty for bringing him out of his sleep but needing to know Sam was truly okay, Dean pressed a hand against his brother's cheek, willing him back from the depths. "Sammy?" At first, Sam did not respond, but Dean persisted until brown eyes cracked open and peered up at him. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

A frown passed over Sam's brow as he struggled to make sense of the world once more. His eyes moved past Dean's head to the trees above them and everything fell into place. "How long was I out?" he whispered.

"Not long," Dean replied, refusing to let go of his first query. "How are you feeling?"

Sam stared back at his brother for a moment, contemplating the answer. From where he was lying, he didn't feel so dreadful although his ribs throbbed with an incessant aching he knew wouldn't be going away any time soon. "I think I'm okay." He knew Dean wouldn't believe him but, for once, it was actually the truth. Perhaps he was just comparing his current state with the horrific descent from the plane, but it didn't feel like his head was about to explore anymore and the thumping in his back seemed to have been eased by lying flat for a while. Deciding to put his body to the test, Sam spread his hands and attempted to raise himself off the ground but Dean's strong hands pushed him back down.

"Woah there! Take it easy. We're not going anywhere for a while. It's going to be dark soon and rescue won't be far away. We're gonna pitch camp here for the night. Just rest easy for a bit." Dean found a little comfort in the words himself, even though the prospect of spending a night under the stars in their current circumstances didn't exactly fill him with joy. He just wanted to see Sam settled in a nice warm bed, preferably in a nice motel with some decent painkillers and plenty of trashy movies.

Bobby's shadow fell over the pair and he leaned down, proffering a water bottle. "Here."

Dean accepted the bottle gratefully and put one hand under Sam's neck so that he wouldn't choke but his brother twisted from his grasp. "No, I'm good. I'm just tired."

"This isn't a negotiation, bro. Drink. You know the drill, keep your fluids up and all that." Dean's concern was thinly veiled and Sam had spent enough time in his brother's presence to know when his game face had truly clamped down. For Dean's sake, he attempted to raise himself to his elbows. "Fine. but you're not feeding me like a baby."

"Fair enough," Dean agreed and put a firm arm around his brother's shoulders and eased him into a fully seated position. He heard Sam take a sharp breath and he could feel the younger man's heart thudding through his back. "You okay?" He pulled back enough to see Sam's face, taking care not to relinquish his support. Sam's skin had managed to lose even more colour and his face was screwed up as he tried to ride out a new wave of pain. The young man nodded without speaking, his lips drawn into a tight line. Dean sympathised, no stranger to pain himself but he was proud of his little brother for just getting on with it like Dad had always taught them. Sam needed to stay strong through the night and, if the trepidation in Dean's heart was anything to go by, possibly keep going for a while longer than that.

Once Sam was seated properly, Dean handed him the water flask and watched with relief when Sam swallowed it back without complaint. At least he wasn't going to have to fight his brother every step of the way. "You okay while I pitch camp? I'm going to get us some fire wood."

"Anything I can do?" Sam peered up at his brother who was now standing over him, looking like a seven year-old beneath his scruffy mop of hair. Dean opened his mouth, about to refuse the offer but Sam cut him off. "Dean, please. I'm not useless. I can help…let me help."

Dean's hazel eyes bored into him, searching the brown depths for signs that his brother was hiding the extent of his injuries from him. "Okay, but you're not moving from this spot, you hear?" He wagged a finger in Sam's face, emphatically, his eyes wide in warning. Dean pulled the bags they had dropped from the tree over to where his brother was sitting and set them beside him. "You can rustle up something for dinner. We were expecting to stock up in town but, between the three of us, I'm sure there's enough to keep us going for one night."

"Okay," Sam replied, wincing as he breathed too deeply again. He felt self-loathing building up inside him, hating himself for being such a burden in this time of need. More than anything, he wanted to pitch in and help. Sam wasn't used to being passive in situations like this. He was either firing on all cylinders or out for the count, there was rarely an in between. Still, at least conjuring up food was a reasonably important task. He only hoped his brother's obsession with M&Ms had waned in the past few weeks.

* * *

Sam's job had kept his mind off his own discomfort if nothing else. All he had managed to muster out of the eclectic array of items was a banana, two turkey sandwiches from Bobby and some Reeses Pieces. He had himself to thank for the fruit input and Bobby for the sandwiches but, as always, Dean could only be relied on to stash cavity inducing sweets that would give them a half hour energy burst before they were starving again. Fortunately, Sam's student days weren't so far behind him that he couldn't work wonders with a Pot Noodle and a microwave, so he hoped to still conjure up something resembling a decent meal.

Bobby had shown his camping skills to be formidable by organising a plastic bag for catching rain water, producing a compass to check their location and…were those edible berries in his hand? Dean, on the other hand, was not faring so well. Give him a match and lighter fluid to torch a grave, but leave him with some hunks of wood and two stones to rub together and the man was literally stuck in the Dark Ages. Sam watched his brother's mounting annoyance with amusement for a few minutes before realising that the sky was darkening rapidly and courageously began to offer tips.

"You're supposed to light the small stuff first, some dry leaves or moss or something. It gives the rest a chance to catch light," Sam provided, helpfully.

Dean shot him a withering look. "Really? Is that before or after I've actually managed to get a flame going here?" he asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"It'd be easier if you weren't trying to do it into the wind." Sam raised his hands in mock surrender when he received another cool glare. "I'm just saying." Dean returned his attention to the task at hand, reluctantly accepting his brother's advice and adjusting his position to avoid any gusts of wind. Sam continued to watch, occasionally opening his mouth before deciding against inciting further wrath from his older sibling. He could see Dean was about to snap and, if he was perfectly honest with himself, Sam didn't have much more of a clue about how to start a fire himself. That had always been Dad's job.

Bobby, on the other hand, seemed intent on busying himself with generating markers around their immediate site to ensure any rescuers were certain of their location. Sam frowned, "Hey, Bobby? Don't you think the crashed plane and us lying under it will be a pretty good indication of where we are?"

Bobby smiled, relieved that Sam was well enough to start engaging with the world properly once more. "The plane is easy to see from the sky but the canopy all but hides it down here. As for us, I've got a theory that we're not so far from civilisation."

"You're kidding?" Sam's eyes widened and the comment caused Dean to turn on his heel and stare at the older hunter in mutual surprise.

Bobby shrugged at them both, nonchalantly. "It's just a theory. I'm not about to send us off half-cocked into the forest at dusk on the assumption. I need to be sure."

"How much surer do you think you're going to get without any navigation equipment?" Dean asked, scathingly. "Why are we wasting our time pitching camp here?"

"A good few hours of daylight will be enough to explore the local area and get my bearings. At first light, I'll set out then, if I'm right, I'll go get help and bring them back here to you." Bobby tipped the brim of his cap and continued making his markers on the tree.

Sam caught Dean staring at him. The hazel eyes had lost their heated edge and there were flashes of concern etched in their depths. Sam knew exactly what his brother was thinking. "Hey, I'm okay. I can walk. The pain in my ribs feels…manageable. I mean, this is a forest, not Mount Everest. I can do this. You don't have to leave me behind."

The hazel eyes flickered then hardened once more. "No, Sam. You're not walking off into the wilderness with a likely concussion and broken ribs!" Dean's voice was stern and he turned his back to make it quite clear this conversation was over. Moments like these always rubbed Sam up the wrong way. He hated being treated like a little kid just because he was a few years younger. He was a Stanford student!

Bobby glanced at the older Winchester, "You listening to your own speech there, kid?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, irritably.

"Well, I seem to remember checking on you with a head injury lying on the floor, out for the count for quite some time. So that makes two injured parties." Bobby chose to omit the fact that he, too, had been knocked unconscious in the crash. He felt justified, given _he_ hadn't got problems admitting when he wasn't up to a job. Besides, he had been careful to monitor the signs of any concussion. Put it down to a hard head but he had definitely got off lightly this time. Plus, if he wasn't there to look out for the Winchester boys, who else would?

Dean struck the two stones together with more force, his annoyance showing fiercely in his twitching jaw. "I can take care of myself, Bobby. I'm just fine. No one gets out of a plane crash unscathed. It's no big deal."

"Well, that's my argument, too," Sam fenced, refusing to allow himself to become the third wheel in this mess. Catching his brother's eye, Sam stared Dean in the face as he said, "Bobby, save us from a freezing night, will ya? Dean doesn't have a clue."

Bobby finished etching his mark on the tree and strolled over to the small fire Dean had built. He knew the boys were spoiling for a fight but he wasn't about to get involved. On the other hand, neither was he prepared to put Dean's pride over their safety and welfare when night fell. Rifling through his pockets, he produced something small and grey then fumbled at the base of the fire out of Sam's sight. In a second, small tendrils of yellow flame licked through the smaller kindling and tinder. Both boys looked at the hunter, incredulous. "How did you…?" Dean couldn't even finish the words. His fingers were sore and bruised from getting in the way of his stones all the time and every muscle in his hand hurt from the intensity of the task. "You were leaving me to get carpel tunnel syndrome when you had that…whatever it is, in your pocket all this time?!"

"Sorry," Bobby apologised, ready to ride out Dean's outburst. "I just thought it was something you wanted to do on your own but, Sam is right, it's getting cold and…"

Sam leaned forwards, trying to get a better look at what was in the man's hand. "What is it?"

Bobby tossed the dark stone over. "Magnesium stone. Essential for any wilderness adventure."

Dean snorted, "Adventure? I'll stick to Disneyworld, thanks." He tossed his own stones angrily into the trees, hating to admit defeat. He had always loathed camping and this experience was made worse by the fact that he was beginning to notice some unwelcome similarities between his own temper and his father's. Taking a deep breath, Dean tried to gain control of himself. The fire was lit, they weren't going to freeze. He just had to be big enough to move past the humiliation. Maybe he was just hungry. "So, what's for dinner, mom?" he asked Sam, craning his neck to try and see what crushed delights his brother had managed to rustle up from the depths of their bags.

Sam seemed surprised at his brother's sudden mood swing but decided to play along with it nevertheless. "Well, we've got first course and dessert. No thanks to you though. Does anything green that grows in the ground actually ever pass your lips?"

A wicked smile played across Dean's face. "Does smoking it count?"

Conveniently, Bobby arrived before Sam could reply and gestured to the shelter he had provided for them to sleep under. "If we get a sudden downpour, this should keep us relatively dry. All our sleeping bags are intact. We should be pretty comfortable." He grinned, clearly extremely satisfied with his efforts and Sam had to admit, they would be screwed without the hunter's calm dexterity in the face of adversity. Bobby poked at the fire to keep it going then looked Sam over. "How are you feeling now?"

Sam shrugged. "Apart from the ribs, I don't feel too bad. Hungry though. I thought turkey sandwich and banana splits," he suggested, quickly shifting the conversation. Shuffling forwards, he handed Bobby some aluminium foil with the M&M filled banana for placing on the fire. Then, he handed his companions a bit of turkey sandwich each. The three munched in silence for a while, the opportunity to stop finally making them realise how tired they were. Sam watched as Dean tried to eke out his small portion, the mouse sized bites looking ridiculous compared to the way he usually crammed whole burgers into his mouth. It made Sam feel doubly worse that he could hardly manage his own piece of sandwich. He desperately wanted to offer Dean his part but he knew both hunters were watching him like a hawk for any signs that he wasn't up to travelling. Sam didn't want to lose the chance to prove them wrong so he forced himself to chew the bread and meat, swallowing back the urge to gag on the last few mouthfuls. The prospect of managing even a third of a banana was enough to make him nauseous but he kept going.

Finally, Bobby spoke. "I'm going to check the map, start plotting our course, then I'm going to hit the hay. You boys should do the same. If I'm right, we've got a heavy day tomorrow."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said, unusually quiet and compliant all of a sudden. He looked over at Sam, trying to make out his pallor through the warm flames of the fire. He did seem to be slightly better. Perhaps if they bound his ribs properly, he could make the journey after all. Bobby seemed optimistic and so far the hunter had proved to be right about most things on this trip…except how great a Cessna was anyway. "You done with dinner, Sam?" he asked. Sam looked at him suspiciously, clearly wandering what would happen if he said yes. Dean rolled his eyes. "I just think we should do something about those ribs of yours before we bed down is all."

"Like what?!" Sam asked as his eyes widened in horror.

"Jesus, I'm not going to cut you open! I'm just going to bind them up with the bandages from the medical kit." Dean didn't bother to wait for his brother's permission but pulled out the kit and moved to sit down beside Sam. "Jeez, you look like shit, Sammy." Sam managed a flicker of a smile but it was short-lived as he tried awkwardly to remove his shirt. It hurt like hell but he was not about to let on how much pain he was still in. He wouldn't be left behind.

Dean watched his brother's face grey with the exertion of trying to pull one arm out of his sleeve. Gently, he tugged it the rest of the way in the hope of easing his pain. If Sam welcomed it, he did not acknowledge it so Dean silently helped him out of the other arm and rolled his T-shirt up carefully. A rapid twitching in Sam's jaw was the only indication of the pain he was trying to control and it took only a cursive glance to realise why. His torso was a mottled mess of bruised flesh as if someone had taken it upon themselves to tenderise him like a side of meat. Large patches of pink blossomed across his chest and already showed signs of deepening into purple welts.

Dean swallowed hard and his eyes shot to Sam's face. His little brother looked back innocently. "What is it?"

"Nothin'. I'll get you fixed up." Dean unravelled the bandages and held them uselessly for a moment while he tried to figure out where to start on the bruised flesh. "Can you hold this here?" he asked, pressing Sam's hand into the bandage against his chest. Sam did as he was asked, thankfully not even bothering to look down at what his brother was doing. Dean ignored the sharp intakes of breath as he tightened the bindings across Sam's ribs but felt a wave of relief when the task was done. "Okay, I'm done. How does it feel?"

Sam gently tried to move his body a little and a smile broke out across his face. "Better. Thanks, Dean."

"Sure. Now let's get some sleep. Bobby's got big plans for us tomorrow."

* * *

Bobby lay back against his bedroll, studying the map for the umpteenth time. He couldn't afford to be wrong about their location. Both Winchester boys were injured and in need of a warm bed and some decent medical attention not a trek into the wilderness. However, if his own calculations were correct, their needs would be met by the following evening. He tracked one callused finger over the trail once more, carefully taking in the landmarks he recalled from his memories of the plane. The light of the fire was dying and the chill air was beginning to get to him so the hunter set the map aside and stretched his protesting limbs.

After a brief bathroom break in the woods, Bobby decided to check on the boys before settling down for the night. No matter how well Dean had played the capable brother role, the day's toll showed clearly in his deep slumber. The gash on his head was starting to look a little puffy and the hunter reminded himself to check the boy over for any signs of infection first thing in the morning. He was loathe to wake Dean now when sleep was probably about the best gift his body could get right now. Time rewound itself in Bobby's eyes; he saw only the boy he had looked after in days gone by. The features were still the same but if he looked hard enough, there was a sadness in it now, a realisation that the world was an ugly place. It pained Bobby to think how Dean had lost sight of the joy life could bring. For him, there was only death and destruction, shadows to be vanquished, each one taking a bit of his soul with it.

Bleakly assured that Dean was not at death's door, Bobby moved to where Sam was lying wrapped up in his sleeping bag. Dark hair hung down over his eyes and the hunter squatted low to brush them aside. Shadows were smudged around the younger man's eyes and he looked a perturbing shade of pale. Still, at least his breathing seemed easier now. In the depths of sleep, erratic gasps had evened out into gentle cadences and the frown lines of discomfort had faded. As gently as he could, Bobby tilted Sam's chin a little so that he could get a better look at the stitches on the side of his head. Some blood flow had continued after the work had been done but, on the whole, Bobby was pleased with the patch-up job. Sam would live to see another day and he could get some well-earned sleep.

* * *

Morning came all too quickly in the open air. Birds sounded like they were singing through a tanoi system right in your ear and even the rustle of the trees in the wind was enough to shake you awake. All this and a very sore hip from lying on his side on the hard ground brought Dean back to the world of the living. Man, he hated camping. Had he said that out loud yet? Because it was about time everyone was reminded of that fact. He sat up carefully, rubbing his aching hip and squinting through narrowed eyes at the brightness of early morning daylight.

Sam was tucked up in his sleeping bag still, almost buried from view but for a mop of brown hair peeking out the top. Bobby, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had started his recon mission early. Dean could hide his slight disappointment that the hunter hadn't rustled up some wonderful breakfast special for them. He was starving, which only reminded him of how this was even worse than camping. At least when Dad had taken them, he had always woken up to the sweet smell of bacon sizzling over the campfire. Surely Bobby's bushman skills extended to hunting down a wild boar or two?

Finally acknowledging the call of nature, Dean hauled himself out of the relative warmth of his sleeping bag and into the gnat infested woods. Everything around him was offensive to his eyes, from the ants crawling up the bark of the tree he was staring at to the pine needles that had found their way into his boots and the incessant noise of local wildlife. Never in his life had Dean longed for his beloved Impala so much. Just give him a stretch of asphalt and he was a happy man. This sucked out loud.

Then, he remembered that there was one person who probably thought it sucked worse. Heading back to camp, Dean decided it was time to wake Sam and make sure he was okay. After all, even on his worst day, his little brother was more of a morning person than Dean would ever be. The fact that he was still out for the count, even after an injury, concerned Dean enough to pull Sam from sleep. "Wakey, wakey, Sammy boy!" he called as he returned to the clearing, hoping to give his brother a head's up. The mop of dark hair did not move.

Kneeling beside the inert sleeping bag, Dean pulled back the zip to reveal Sam's face. He looked drawn and pasty in the early morning light but peaceful, nonetheless. "Come on, Sam. Time to get up," Dean cajoled until Sam started to stir.

He cracked open brown eyes and peered up at his brother. "What time is it?"

"Time to get up." Dean sat back to allow Sam space as he struggled to disentangle himself from his sleeping bag. "How are the ribs?"

"Not too bad," Sam replied, blearily. "What's for breakfast?"

"I thought that was your job," Dean grinned. "Bet those M&Ms aren't looking so bad now, huh?" Sam shot him a withering look and tentatively drew himself to his feet. Lying down had fooled him into thinking he was feeling better but it took only a second on his feet for the thudding aches to kick in. If they were this bad after only a few seconds, Sam could only imagine how bad it would be by the time they started trekking to civilisation. The blood rushed to his head and dancing spots threatened his vision. It took him a moment to realise Dean was gripping his arm hard to stop him from toppling. "I'm okay," Sam breathed as he struggled to right himself again. He could already feel his brother's concerned eyes boring into him. "I just stood up too fast…" he protested feebly.

"Sam, c'mon. You're not up to this."

Sam shrugged his brother off in annoyance. "Okay, so I got busted up in the crash. Aren't I even allowed to get up too fast without getting shafted for it?! I've just woken up. Give me a break!"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, Sam. Maybe Bobby's right…"

"He's not!" Sam roughly interjected. "I'll be fine. I'd be even better with some breakfast in me," he added and moved towards his bag, rummaging through it for anything edible he had failed to see the previous day. At least they had water and he drained the bottle like it was nectar from the gods. "Here," he said, tossing Dean a cracker he had found in the front pocket. Taking the other for himself, he chewed slowly, wishing he had some more water to wash it down with. Still, it filled the hole nagging in his stomach and he couldn't help feeling a little smug that he had dealt with breakfast just when Dean was about to throw the 'invalid' card at him.

The two brothers ate in silence, Dean casting regular glances at Sam while Sam pretended not to notice or care. It was a welcome sight to see Bobby emerge from the bushes to their left with a broad grin across his face. "Success!" he exclaimed.

"You've found a way out of here?" Sam asked, hopefully.

Bobby crouched between the Winchester brothers and spread his map out on the ground, pointing a stubby finger at a spot to one side. "This is us. By my calculations, judging by the line of the river before we crashed and the duration of the flight, anyway. Whitehorse is somewhere off the map over here. Our outpost destination should be about ten miles from here north-west of the river. Now, I've just found the river. I reckon if we follow it up here…" His finger traced the narrow blue line up the map, "…then we should be almost on top of the post."

Dean smiled and slapped Bobby good-naturedly on the back. "Ah, you did good, Bobby! Man, am I glad we brought you along." Bobby tried not to be offended at being described like some stray dog and tucked his map back in his jacket pocket.

"So I guess we'd better get packed up," Sam said, determined to make himself useful as quickly as possible before someone tried to leave him here again. Not waiting for answer, he began rolling up his sleeping bag and attached it to the bottom of his rucksack.

Dean gave Bobby a stern look and jerked his head in the direction of the trees. The two men moved away until they were out of Sam's earshot. Dean lowered his voice nonetheless. "Bobby, I'm thrilled you found the way out and all but…"

"Do I think Sam can make it?" Bobby finished the question for him. Dean nodded, gravely. "Dean, I know you care about your brother. We both do…but you have to remember Sam may have been out of the loop for a while but he knows how to take care of himself. His head seems okay, better than yours in fact," Bobby added, staring pointedly at the puffy cut on Dean's head.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine! Okay, let's get moving as quickly as possible though. And I want to make sure Sam gets plenty of stops along the way."

"Sure thing," Bobby consented.

It didn't take long for the three men to gather everything they could feasibly carry and ensure their markers were clearly visible for anyone who found their downed plane. Dean attempted to take Sam's pack but was swatted away. "I can do it, Dean!" came his brother's indignant response. Sam waited until Dean and Bobby were deep in conversation over the map before he attempted to lift the rucksack. His back had been getting steadily more painful with each movement and he was beginning to dread what the added weight of a laden bag on his spine was going to do. He didn't want Dean getting suspicious again.

Wincing, he hoisted the backpack over his arms and onto his shoulders. His back protested instantly, sending sharp flashes of pain shooting down his spine. Sam gasped, aggravating his ribs, and he bit his lip hard to stifle the cry that instinctively rose in his throat. He staggered momentarily, the world disappearing around him while he struggled to control the pain coursing through his entire body. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe Dean had been right. How the hell was he going to walk ten miles like this when each step was like a needle in his nerves? Finally, he gained control of himself once more and looked up, relieved to see that neither Dean nor Bobby had noticed. "Are we set?" he asked, forcing some animation into his voice.

"Let's go," Bobby said and strode ahead through the bushes, leaving Dean and Sam to follow in his wake.

* * *

The sun rose in the sky and, even though the weather was not warm, their exertions already had the party sweating profusely. Bobby seemed to have attained some kind of micro-climate and refused to remove his jacket or his hat while Dean had already stripped to his T-shirt. Sam was sweltering but the discomfort of lifting his arms had made him decide against taking his shirt off. To add to that, he wasn't sure he would even have the stamina to get the pack off his back, let alone put it back on. It was like some kind of self-inflicted torture.

After only half an hour, he stopped joining in the conversations, only saying enough to keep Dean off his back. After another fifteen minutes, Sam began to feel like his body was just one large pin cushion being stabbed repeatedly in time with his pace. Ten minutes more and the pain was about all he could focus on anymore. It struck every nerve relentlessly and he could feel the blood pumping through his veins. The thumping in his head was like an incessant drum beat that wouldn't go away, but that was nothing compared to his back. Sam had never experienced anything like that and had no clue what was causing the pain. Bruising alone would not be responsible for agony on this level. The discomfort of his ribs faded into oblivion compared to this. The pain was indescribable.

Sam found himself breathing in raggedly, the movement of his lungs impacting on his spine just enough to make the motion antagonise his injury further. He concentrated on the ground in front of him, watching his feet automatically move forwards over the pine needles. It was as if they didn't belong to him. His head pounded dully, muting any other sounds. Sam found it difficult to focus properly on his direction anymore but he was dimly aware of fighting a constant battle of over-correcting his body as it weaved to the side. He used Dean's retreating back as a guide. For the first time, he actually wished his brother would turn around and help him but Sam couldn't find his voice to ask for help.

He swallowed, trying to wet his parched throat but it did little good. Then he stumbled on a branch, barely more than a twig, and the pain flared beyond comprehension. The needle pricks became like pokers of molten lead fused against his spine, taking his breath away with its intensity. Dean's back tilted ahead of him and gave way to a bit of tree trunk, then the forest floor. Then nothing.

END OF PART 4

Still interested? Please feedback! I know it's another cliffie and I know you guys waited for AGES for this but, come on, you know you love them really! Plus, I promise the next update won't be nearly so long coming!


	5. Warning Signs

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Fortunately, this chapter came a little bit easier but, after about four pages, I saw the first half of the season two finale and all I wanted to do was see Sam fit and well again. For the first time, I had no desire to hurt him whatsoever! Still, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Sorry, Sam! Dean's turn soon, though.

Thank you HUGELY to everyone who reviewed. I took a break from replying to people for a chapter or two just because I thought you'd all rather I was writing the next bit, but I'll be in touch again. Your supportive words mean so much and I was really worried people would flame me for taking so long to update.

PART 5 : WARNING SIGNS

Dean had been listening to Sam's ragged breathing, trying desperately hard not to turn around and make a fuss. He could see the argument unfolding already and it wasn't going to do an ounce of good except make them both angry and embarrassed in front of Bobby. Besides, there was no turning back now. They had moved too far away from the crash site to make it worth their while heading back. If Bobby was right, they were closer to their destination with every step. Dean knew Sam would be fighting whatever pain he was in and he didn't need someone trying to sympathise. The Winchester way was to grit your teeth and bear it as best you could. Any offers of help would be empty. Dean had nothing to give his brother to alleviate his suffering so he just strode on, being careful not to let branches fling back in Sam's face as they moved through the undergrowth.

Dean glanced at his watch. They had been walking for long enough now to justify a break. That was one thing Sam would appreciate. "Hey, Bobby. I could do with a break."

Bobby turned back. "Sure thing." As much as he wanted to get them back to the civilised world, he knew neither of his companions were firing on all cylinders. His eyes travelled past Dean to where Sam had been bringing up the rear. The elder Winchester followed his gaze, dropping his water bottle in horror. "Sam?" When his question went unanswered, Dean hollered. "Sam? Quit playing around!" His heart thumped wildly in his chest. He knew Sam wouldn't be fooling with him in his condition. "Jesus, Bobby! We've got to find him!" Without waiting for any response, he began running back in the direction they had come, twigs whipping against his cheeks, some drawing blood. "Sammy!" he called again, each syllable swallowed up with dread.

Then there he was, an inert body lying on his stomach on the ground, one arm flung out above his head where he had tried to stop his fall. "Damnit, Sammy!" Dean gasped as he threw himself to the ground beside his brother. He fumbled his fingers past Sam's collar to his neck and waited with bated breath for the pulse to register through his fingertips. It was slower than it should be but strong enough for Dean to breathe a momentary sigh of relief.

Bobby caught up with him and lifted one of Sam's floppy arms as he tried to extricate the young man from his cumbersome backpack. Then he carefully helped Dean roll Sam over onto his back. He passed one hand over the young man's forehead. "He's hot to the touch."

"We've been walking pretty hard. Could it just be the exertion?" Dean asked, hopefully. He knew what the answer was likely to be but he was fishing for some reassurance right now. From the look on Bobby's face though, he wasn't going to get any.

"We've missed something," Bobby murmured. "Sam's in good shape. A knock to the head and a few cracked ribs wouldn't do this. He was doing fine when we set out." He unbuttoned Sam's shirt and began lifting his T-shirt, a disapproving frown passing across his face when he saw the angry bruises peeking out from beneath Dean's bindings. As gently as he could, he pressed down onto the young man's ribs. "There're no abnormal bumps. His breath sounds aren't laboured. I don't think he's punctured his lungs." He lay one ear close to Sam's chest, gauging the light rise and fall of his breathing. He caught Dean's anxious stare and shook his head. There was nothing unusual.

Bobby pulled back and sat on his haunches for a moment, rubbing one hand across his beard. Dean groped for Sam's hand which was resting across his chest and squeezed it in his own. "Sammy?" he coaxed, looking down at his brother's pale face. He hadn't expected a response and he didn't get one. His little brother simply lay in the brush where he had fallen, oblivious to the mortal danger he might be in. Dean cursed himself for not being more vigilant. He had just kept telling himself that if they just made it through this short journey, Sam would thank him for it, that everything would be all right. He hadn't allowed himself to consider that the damage was worse than it seemed. Dean hadn't wanted to accept that Sam was suffering in a way he couldn't fix. But now the worst was done. He had failed his little brother and every fibre of his being felt the guilt washing through. "I'll stay here with him. You keep going and bring back help."

Bobby met Dean's hazel eyes, fires blazing from their depths. He pondered the idea for a moment. "Just as soon as we figure out what's wrong with him."

"I can do that. We're just wasting time!" Dean fought to keep his voice from rising in panic.

"Dean, calm down. It'll only take a few minutes and we need to know what we're dealing with. The paramedics will need to be prepared plus…" Bobby's voice trailed away when he realised what he was about to say.

Dean completed the thought for him. "We need to know how long he's got." His gaze drifted to his little brother's face, then the warmth of the limp hand grasped in his own. Pangs of emotions he couldn't name or even begin to describe swirled in his stomach and tugged at his heart. Right now, there was nothing he wouldn't give to see those brown eyes open and smiling again.

"Come on, let's check him over properly. Never mind about the ribs. We need to be on the look out for something else…something worse." Bobby pressed his hands against Sam's torso, moving callused fingers against the warm skin in search of a clue. Dean set to work on Sam's legs, already pretty certain that Sam hadn't experienced any trouble walking until he keeled over. "Help me turn him on his stomach," Bobby instructed. "Watch the ribs," he added unnecessarily as Dean pulled Sam into his arms, allowing the older hunter a good view of his back. Sam's head fell limply against his brother's shoulder, his arms dangling lifelessly as Dean pulled him close. The heat emanating from his skin was like a hot water bottle and whatever doubts Dean had felt about a fever were cruelly confirmed.

Bobby pushed Sam's T-shirt higher on his back and ran his hands down the length of the young man's spine, pausing along the way to check for any cracks in the vertebrae. As he reached Sam's waist, he noticed the increased heat in his skin and how much spongier it felt beneath his touch. He leaned in for a closer inspection.

Dean craned his neck past Sam's shoulder to get a better look. "What is it?" he asked, intrepidly. He pulled his brother closer to him, gripping one hip to gain a better view of what Bobby was looking at.

"Looks like we've found whatever dropped him. There's swelling at the base of his spine." Bobby pressed around the area as gently as he could but intent on assessing Sam's injuries while the boy was still out for the count. "There's quite a bit of inflammation."

"A spinal injury?" Dean choked out in horror. "But he was walking fine."

"So we _thought_," Bobby noted. "You Winchesters are as stubborn as oxen. Sam didn't want to hold us up. He would have done his very best to avoid letting on how badly he was hurt."

Dean nodded mutely, recognising himself in his brother's motivations. He looked at Sam's face, resting quietly on his shoulder. It had been many years since he had held his brother like this and, beneath the strange sense of peace he found from the position, he felt a sense of dread. The only times he had held Sam so, something awful had been upon them – a fiend or monster, a mortal wound, a loss that even a Winchester could not hide from.

"What can we do?" he asked, his own voice hoarse and tremulous with barely concealed fear. It wasn't like Sam hadn't been injured before but never like this, never in the middle of nowhere without a phone to call for help or Dean's beloved Impala to whisk them to the nearest hospital. Even at worst, Dad had still been there, allaying everyone's panic with his ever calm, matter-of-fact assessment of the situation. Since the Winchester brothers had been on their own, Dean had lost sight of the things he used to rely on, until their absence was cruelly highlighted in moments like this. Dean felt thankful to Bobby. He wasn't sure how he would cope without him.

"We need to immobilise him. If he's got a back injury, there's nothing we can do out in the field like this…" Bobby's appraisal was cut short when Sam let out a low whimper, drawing both men's immediate attention. Dean adjusted his hold so that they could see his brother's face better but Sam didn't seem to show any signs of waking up. His face was quiet and motionless but it didn't stop Dean's questioning plea, "Sam?" He moved one hand to his brother's cheek, hoping the touch might be enough to raise Sam from the depths of unconsciousness. "Sammy?"

Sam felt something pressed against his face, warm and solid. It grounded his spinning, lethargic brain and he found himself able to focus on it while sounds penetrated the fog. He could hear birds singing, a gentle swishing beneath it and voices mumbling near his ear. The words made sense to him somehow but his brain was sluggish, unable to process the phonemes and turn them into logic. Sam opened his mouth and tried to tell someone, to help himself out from the swirling mist of incomprehension.

"Sammy?" Dean called, more firmly now as he watched his brother stir and willed him back to the world of the living. It pained him to bring Sam out of the hurt-free swoon but they needed to know what was wrong in order to fix it.

Bobby removed his own pack and began rummaging around for his personal tin of medical items. He pulled out a bottle of smelling salts and unscrewed the lid then glanced at Dean for approval. Dean nodded and the older hunter wafted the strong scents underneath Sam's noise. The younger man's head swung away from the sharp smell and a frown passed over his face. Bobby's hand followed the motion of his head, refusing to let Sam escape until his eyes cracked open.

Dean's face hovered over him and Sam slowly realised that he was lying on the ground, his head resting on his brother's knees. Dean's face broke into a relieved smile and his hand jostled against Sam's face. "Hey there, Sammy. You okay?" It was a stupid question but he just wanted to hear his brother's voice.

Sam nodded, "Yeah…think so." His voice was thin and weak, surprising even himself. He couldn't remember how he had got here and he struggled to latch onto any one thought for long enough to piece the jigsaw together.

Sensing his brother's disoriented state, Dean smiled in reassurance. "You took a bit of a tumble. You remember what happened?" Sam shook his head mutely and he looked from Dean to Bobby in dazed bewilderment. Dean tried hard not to allow his fear to get the better of him but it was hard when they were stranded in unforgiving nature and his brother had an unexplained back injury.

Bobby, sensing Dean's barely suppressed distress, took over with his best bedside manner. "Sam, do you remember the plane crash?" He waited for the triggered memories to filter through the young Winchester's brain and smiled when he finally received an affirmative nod. "Do you remember setting out from the camp? We were walking to our destination." Sam nodded blearily again. "That's good, that's good." Bobby glanced over at Dean, who was grateful for the brief moment he had needed to get his panic under control again.

"You fell, Sam. Do you remember how you felt before? Did it hurt anywhere?" Dean probed. "In your back?"

Sam thought for a moment, his brain starting to receive painful messages from his lower back once more. "Yeah…it was okay at first then…"

"Then what?" Dean urged, desperate to know every detail so that Bobby could miraculously cure him.

"It just got worse…" Sam added miserably. "…'til I couldn't walk anymore." His dark eyes surveyed his brother's face for an explanation. The throbbing was starting up again and his pain management skills had taken a serious beating since he had passed out the first time. "What's wrong with me?" he asked, querulously, dimly realising how dangerous getting sick out here might be. Dean looked fearfully at Bobby for some help but the older hunter seemed at a loss for words, too. Sam watched the silent exchange with ever increasing alarm. "Dean?" he begged.

Bobby chimed in finally. "Sam, can you feel your legs okay?"

Sam pondered the question for a second then carefully wiggled his toes. "Yeah," he replied, hopefully.

"Good, that's a good sign," Bobby smiled. "Are you still in any pain? Do you want something?"

"My back kind of hurts, but it isn't so bad." Sam really would have liked to say 'yes' and swallowed a handful of pills but the sensible part of his brain warned him that, if his condition deteriorated, he would need what little supplies they had to alleviate the pain. Right now, it was manageable, but there was no telling how long that would last. He wasn't about to waste the good stuff too early on. He cursed himself for being so pessimistic but, if Dad had taught them anything, it was to be prepared for any event.

"Dean, can you roll him a bit. I just want to check his back again." Dean followed Bobby's instructions, pulling Sam to his chest in an embrace that gave him more comfort than he let on. Just feeling the solid weight of his brother in his arms was enough to steady him. Everything would be all right. He would make it so.

Sam's head rested against the crook of Dean's elbow and he lay quietly, feeling surprisingly tired for someone who had just been unconscious. His eyes wandered lazily over the material of his brother's T-shirt, the thin cotton fabric on the verge of wearing into holes. It was one of Dean's favourites from a Metallica tour and Sam knew he wouldn't part with it until it was completely threadbare. He inhaled the scent of his brother's sweat, strangely familiar and comforting. He drifted away from Bobby's gentle probing, hardly reacting to the bruising pressure. That is until the hunter's fingers lighted on the most sensitive part to the right of his spine. The touch was like a trigger in his nerve endings, sending shooting pains up and down his back.

Sam gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, his hand gripping Dean's free arm with vice-like intensity. The sudden catch in his breath bothered his ribs and the pain was viciously magnified. He struggled to control his reactions, knowing that he needed to calm his breathing if the stabbing pain was to go away.

Dean looked down anxiously at his brother's face, screwed up as he rode out the waves of pain. "You're doing good, Sam. It's okay," he soothed. He moved his arm from Sam's back and put his hand in his brother's, desperate to make the connection that he knew would ground them both. "Bobby…" he urged, willing him to finish what he was doing, badly needing to make his little brother comfortable again.

"I'm sorry," Bobby mumbled, "but I need Sam to let us know where it hurts the most. Sam? Is that the worst of it?"

"Mmhm," Sam forced out through pursed lips, unwilling and unable to give the hunter anything more.

"Okay," Bobby sighed and tipped the peak of his cap as he sat back on his heels, trying to figure out his next move.

Dean gently released his grip on Sam's back but was surprised when Sam did not move out of his grasp. He looked down at his little brother's face and recognised that he was still trying to gain control of himself and his emotions. Without thought, he found himself rubbing gentle circles at the top of Sam's back. "Just ride it out, Sam. You can do it." He slowly felt the awkward hitch of his brother's chest ease out against him and Sam moved a hand to his back as he tried to move himself over. Dean helped him lie back down on the soft ground, shifting his discarded jacket under Sam's head.

"Okay, here's what I think," Bobby announced. "We get you and Sam to the river where there's fresh water and a clearer view from any search and rescue helicopters. Then I'll go on ahead and bring back help. We should have him patched up and safe in a hospital bed before dark. What'dya say?"

"Sounds good," Dean nodded, "but how are we going to move Sam?" He gaze fell on his little brother who had closed his eyes. "Sam?" he asked intrepidly, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. Sam's eyes snapped open. "I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Can you do that?"

"Yeah…" Sam replied. "…just resting."

"Okay," Dean conceded before returning his focus to Bobby.

"We could make a stretcher here but it would waste valuable time. The river's only about a hundred yards in that direction," Bobby said, pointing past Dean's head. "I've kept our route close to the banks. If Sam could make the distance, with our help."

Dean shook his head vehemently. "But he's got a spinal injury, Bobby! If we move him around it could get worse. We could paralyse him!"

Bobby ran a hand through his short beard. "I know, I know but…"

"But what?!" Dean demanded, failing to see how Bobby could justify what he was asking him to do.

"I've seen spinal injuries before. Sam can feel his legs just fine and the pain seems to be coming from the right side more than the spine itself. I think he's just badly bruised the area. If we take it slow and both take the pressure of him, I reckon we won't do any further damage. Plus, I can get help quicker than if we stop here and try to make a stretcher." Bobby wasn't entirely convinced by his own reasoning but there wasn't much else on offer. He was cross with himself that he couldn't think of a plan that didn't involve risking Sam's health further but they had to make a decision soon or they might be looking at another night in the undergrowth.

Clearly, Dean had come around to a similar mode of thinking and, before he could change his mind, Sam piped up. "I think I can do it, Dean. It's only a hundred yards. I'll be fine." His voice sounded cheerier, more in control again which only strengthened his resolve and did even more to convince Dean that the plan was better than anything else they could come up with.

"Fine, but if you feel anything at all…" Dean warned.

"I'll let you know straightaway," Sam finished.

"Let's get you up," Bobby said, reaching one arm around Sam's shoulders while Dean gave him a strong arm to support himself as he pulled himself to his feet. Sam tried to hide the wince that the action automatically produced but nothing would go unnoticed by Dean.

"You okay? Does it hurt?" Dean asked, worriedly.

"Dean, I can do this. It's okay. Stop fussing." Sam appreciated his brother's concern but it was harder work concealing the momentary spasms of pain from Dean than it was to manage the throbbing still insistent in his back and ribs.

Dean couldn't find the desire to crack a joke so kept quiet as he helped Sam take his first step forwards. Once the young Winchester was on his feet, Bobby set about retrieving the backpacks and helped Dean on with his. He slung Sam's as far up his free arm as he could so that he still had one free to help their charge.

Sam took a tentative step forwards, watching his feet carefully to check they landed on even ground. His back protested but, with much of his weight taken by his two companions, the pain was more than manageable. One hundred yards, he kept telling himself. Only a hundred yards.

The distance wouldn't have seemed so far if the trees hadn't been so dense and the group had to constantly battle low hanging branches and negotiate rotten logs in order to get anywhere near the river. A particularly large fallen tree trunk loomed up ahead, almost impossible to go around, given the dense foliage, but certainly too high for Sam to climb over in his state. He was so intent on how the hell he was going to get past it that he didn't notice where he was putting his foot until it was too late. With a stumble, his leg slid into an animal burrow.

Sam yelped as the motion jarred his back. The pressure of Bobby and Dean's hands under his arms only made the fall even harsher. "Agh, God!" he cried and squeezed his eyes closed as the pain splintered up his spine, down his arms and legs with lightning speed. He felt Dean's hand against his chest as he tried to steady him but Sam could no longer support his own weight and his legs crumpled bonelessly beneath him.

Feeling Sam go limp in their grip, Dean and Bobby eased the young man down onto the ground into a seated position. Dean quickly manoeuvred himself behind his brother so that Sam's back was resting against his chest and put a gentle hand on his brow. "Sam? Can you hear me?" With his eyes closed and his muscles lax, it was impossible to tell if Sam was unconscious or just unable to go any further.

Sam nodded, relaxing into his brother's embrace, unable to find the energy to give any more information. He focused on Dean's hand on his forehead and tried to draw strength from it. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked up into his brother's face. Dean smiled back down at him. "How are you doing down there?"

Sam swallowed, his throat dry from his exertions. He shook his head weakly, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "Dean, I don't think I can go any further…. It hurts…"

"It's okay, Sammy. Just rest. I'll carry you if I have to." Dean meant it. Sam's face was pale and waxen. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and he looked like death warmed up. It worried the hunter more than he wanted to admit. Bruising was bruising. It hurt like a bitch but it shouldn't be having so profound a reaction. The only explanation was that it was something more serious and Dean had no clue what it was or how to make it better. The only thing he could do was carry his little brother, all six foot two of him, and keep him comfortable.

Sam, on the other hand, felt nothing but guilt at Dean's comment. He didn't want to be carried. Aside from it hurting like hell on his ribs, he had learned the hard way what a dead weight it was to carry an adult male, no matter how fit you were. "No, Dean. I don't want you to." He struggled to sit up, ignoring the spike of pain in his back. Dean helped him upright. "Just give me a few minutes and maybe I can do it." He swallowed again, looking at the tree trunk up ahead. He could say the words but, in truth, he had no idea where he was going to find the reserves to try and walk again. The pain came and went. For moments at a time, he thought everything was going to okay but then he would move and aggravate his injuries once more.

"Sam, don't push yourself. It's okay. Hell, I've carried you before, dude. I can do it again. 'Sides, I've got Bobby with me this time. Just don't play the dead weight game, okay?" he joked, hoping to convince his little brother to give up his martyr act.

"Let me try once more, Dean. Then I promise, I'll come quietly." His brown eyes pleaded puppy dog style and Dean rolled his eyes in response. Sam always played that card when he really wanted something and he knew how effective it was.

"Fine, okay," he conceded.

"I need to…you know, take a leak," Sam added with a shy smile.

"You need some help?" Dean asked, knowing he had to ask but praying it didn't come to that.

Fortunately, Sam was on the same page. "There are some things that should remain private. Just give me a bit of space, will ya?" he asked, glancing over at Bobby who was studying the map.

Dean patted Sam on the back and moved to help his little brother into a standing position. "Sure thing. You good?" he asked, his hands hovering at Sam's arm, ready to catch him if he faltered.

Sam nodded and moved away from his brother, using the crowded tree trunks as makeshift crutches as he moved out of sight. Finding a suitable bush, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and wiped one hand across his damp forehead. His head felt a bit woozy and Sam tried hard to focus on his hands against the nearest tree trunk. Staving off a sudden bout of nausea, he unzipped his pants and aimed for the bushes. Suddenly, an agonising pain tore through his abdomen and Sam flung out one hand to the tree to steady himself again. He watched in horror when he realised blood was now spattering the bush as the pain burned like napalm inside him.

Struggling to maintain his dignity, Sam fumbled with his flies and managed to do the zip up with trembling fingers. He pressed his fist into his pelvis, willing the burning sensation away but his efforts were futile. Bile rose in the back of his throat and Sam drew in a ragged breath as he tried to control the urge to vomit. Sweat sprang out on his brow again and he could feel the prickle of it all over his upper body. His knuckles whitened against the dark bark of the tree as Sam tried to keep his wavering balance. He knew one thing. He had to get back to Dean and Bobby.

Gingerly turning in fear of what his rebellious body might do next, Sam leaned his back up against the tree while he tried to regain his bearings. He could hear Dean's voice somewhere ahead of him and he tried to move towards it, reaching out from tree to tree. Each step seemed harder to take than the last, his legs felt disconnected from the rest of his body. He lost track of time and seconds felt more like minutes when he realised he wasn't any closer to his brother's voice. Putting one foot in front of the other became increasingly difficult and each movement renewed the stabbing burn that wouldn't go away. Sam hardly noticed that he couldn't feel his legs at first because every part of his body felt alien and strange. It was pins and needles at first, a general fuzziness from hips to toes. Then, Sam felt like he was trying to move the strings on a puppet, his motions drunken and uncoordinated.

In a final act of disobedience, Sam's legs crumpled like cooked spaghetti beneath him, sending him to the ground. Knowing he couldn't go on, not even one more step and barely aware of anything beyond the searing pain in his abdomen, the youngest Winchester summoned what little voice he still possessed and shouted for the one person who could save him. "Dean!"

END OF PART 5

Warm fuzzies or has AHBL1 put everyone off hurting Sam? Please let me know and Dean fans, don't worry, his turn is not far away.


	6. Natural Reactions

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : I was going fine on this chapter until I told myself I had to reach a certain point which seemed miles away at the time! So, sorry for the delay on uploading. Dean fans – I know, I know, I'm getting there! He's got some angst here but just not of the bloody kind. I need to allow things to unfold at their natural pace so I can't go beating on Dean before it's time! Patience, patience!

PART 6 : NATURAL REACTIONS

Dean watched Sam's back retreat into the forest a few feet before respecting his brother's privacy, despite every cell of his brain telling himself he should follow. He turned to where Bobby was perusing the map, his brow furrowed in concentration. "You sure like studying that map, huh?" he noted, uncertainly.

Bobby's eyes narrowed in Dean's direction. "What's that s'posed to mean? Don't you trust my judgement?"

Dean shrugged, "Just sayin' you look at the map a lot." He worked hard to keep from glancing in Sam's direction. He resisted the urge to call out and check on him.

Bobby rambled on. "You know, more people get lost from thinking they know best. I'm just being cautious. You'll thank me for it in the end." Dean did not reply and Bobby could read the young hunter's thoughts like a book. "You sure he's okay in there alone?"

Dean's eyes flinched at the question, recognising his own misgivings in Bobby's comment. Still, he wasn't about to admit his fears out loud because that made them too real. "He hasn't gone far. I hope we haven't quite got to the point where I have to get intimate with, well, you know."

Bobby nodded and let his rucksack drop from his back and pulled his water flask free. He offered it to Dean, who shook his head, before taking a long, refreshing swig. Then, he searched for a strong but manageable branch and swung it through the air, assessing its solidity. Dean widened his eyes and raised his hands in mock protest. "Hey, Little John! Quarterstaff's not quite my thing."

"Who you calling little?" Bobby deadpanned. He moved towards the fallen tree the group had yet to surmount and found the space where the roots ended. Swinging the branch with all his might, the hunter attempted to cut a swathe through the heavy undergrowth. Realising what he was doing, Dean found a branch of his own and joined the path clearing exercise.

In the middle of the rustling and crack of breaking branches, Dean paused, his own branch raised high above his head. Bobby pulled back, ready for another thwack, before noticing Dean had stopped. "What?"

"You hear something?" Dean asked.

"Like what?" Bobby asked, confounded.

Dean dropped his stick and turned to the forest at his back. "Sam!" he shouted, his stomach flipping with dismay. He tried to listen over the pounding of his heart in his ears. "Screw his privacy," he muttered and took off in the direction Sam had headed in. "Sam! Answer me!"

Sam's voice sailed like a ghostly thread across the air, lacking volume but its tone was automatically tuned into Dean's brain. "Oh God," Dean exclaimed as he came across his stricken brother, crumpled into the leaves on the ground. He was clutching his abdomen with both hands, his eyes turned towards his saviour. Dean skidded to a halt in front of Sam. "What is it? What happened?"

Sam looked up at him, pleading with Dean to make the pain stop. "Dean…I can't…I can't feel my legs." If he had not been beside himself with pain, Sam would have been overtaken with the same panic that he could see in Dean's eyes, but somehow he couldn't muster anything beyond the shaky statement.

Dean struggled to think of the comforting words he knew he ought to be saying but his mind was completely empty. "What?" was all he could say, incredulous. This couldn't be happening. His hands moved uselessly towards his little brother's slumped frame, never making contact, unsure where to touch or what to do to help.

"Dean?" Sam breathed, needing to hear something, anything that would tell him he was going to get through this.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay. I'll, uh…" He looked down at his brother's legs, crumpled beneath him. "Can you feel or move them at all?"

Sam concentrated on willing his leaden limbs to move, praying that he could elicit even the smallest tingle in his toes…but there was nothing. He dropped his head into his hands and shook his head, sorrowfully. Dean ran a hand down his face, trying to get control of his emotions again. "Okay, okay. Sam, it's going to be okay. Sam?" Sam made no move to respond and Dean reached out, pulling his little brother's hands away from his face. "Sam, listen to me. I'm going to get you to the river, somewhere safe while Bobby goes for help. By tomorrow, you'll be laughing about this."

Sam lifted his eyes to his brother's, unshed tears shining in their dark depths. "I don't think so, Dean." His voice was broken, unable to see even a second into the future.

"Yes, you can," Dean rallied, defiantly. He gripped Sam's face between his hands, his brother's despair sucker punching him in the gut. Sam was always the optimistic one. If he lost hope now, Dean feared how quickly he might go downhill. "Sam, look at me!" he commanded, forcing Sam's wandering gaze back to him once more. "We're going to get through this together. You and me. It takes more than a plane crash to beat us Winchesters." Sam didn't look the least bit convinced but he nodded anyway and that had to be enough for now.

Bobby's voice carried to them and Dean hollered for him. The older hunter took in the pitiful scene before him. Dean's hands gripping Sam's arms, his eyes wild and fearful while Sam's looked misty with tears. "I can't move my legs," Sam explained with frightening detachment. Bobby swallowed hard. In his wide ranging experience of injuries, paralysis, even temporary, was not a good sign and it certainly wasn't what you wanted when you were in the middle of nowhere.

"We've got to carry him," Dean declared, clearly accepting no alternative.

"Dean, I don't think we should move him. Paralysis is symptomatic of all sorts of things…" He tailed off when he saw the warning look on the young hunter's face. Sam didn't need to hear this kind of talk. He needed a morale boost. "Carrying him could aggravate the injury. If we're going to do it, we've got to have a stretcher this time."

"Fine." Dean said, bluntly.

Bobby nodded, tersely, his eyes roaming uncertainly over Sam's pallid features. "I'll get started." He moved away from the pair, heading back to his backpack and his bedroll. For all his concern, Dean knew how to deal with the basics Sam needed right now and the more time they wasted in getting a stretcher made up, the less chance there was that he would make it to civilisation before dark.

Dean let Bobby go then turned back to Sam. "Come on, let's get you lying down." Sam remained silent, watching miserably as Dean gently extricated his legs from under him and laid them straight out in front of him as his little brother eased himself down onto the ground. The movement sent burning pains through his abdomen again and his arms flew automatically to the source of the pain. Dean looked at him with concern before continuing to arrange his brother's limbs comfortably. Sam might not be able to feel them but he didn't want to think of his legs resting on hard stones in the ground.

"Dean," Sam whispered.

"Yeah?" Dean moved to his brother's head, putting on his best big brother smile. "You comfy there, princess?"

Sam ignored the jibe, his face sombre. "There's something else. There was blood…when I…"

Dean didn't need him to finish the sentence. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" was all he could think of to say and instantly regretted it. It was both stupid and the last thing Sam needed was anyone getting cross with him.

"What can you do? Besides, I'm telling you now, aren't I?" Sam added, dejectedly.

"Yeah, you're telling me now," Dean sighed, dropping down into a seated position beside his brother. Pangs of emotion moved through his tensed body, ridiculous sentiments threatening to burst out of his mouth but he daren't say them. Saying them meant something was truly, badly wrong. It meant that they were words that needed to be spoken before someone…

"It's bad, isn't it?" Sam asked, reading his brother like an open book.

Dean slid his game face on. "If you're a wuss, I guess."

"Dean," Sam warned, his voice low and determined. "Blood means internal injuries, paralysis…"

"You're going to be fine." Dean stated over him, his eyes cold and hard. The words rang hollowly in his head no matter how hard he tried to believe them, and he really did want to believe them.

* * *

It wasn't until an hour later that Bobby's footsteps could be heard and he emerged through the foliage with a makeshift stretcher in his arms. He had managed to secure two branches to either side of one of the sleeping bags and the results looked impressive to Dean's eyes. Bobby, didn't seem so sure. "It was a bit of a rushed job. I don't know how well it'll hold," he said, looking down at Sam's lanky frame.

"It's perfect," Dean smiled, grateful for his friend's help. "What would I do without you?" he joked.

"Still be sitting in that plane most likely," Bobby teased.

"Hey, give me a little credit!" Dean protested.

The moment of light amusement passed quickly as Sam opened his eyes from his failed attempts at rest and escape from the pain that tormented him. "Hey," he said to Bobby, looking at the stretcher. "That for me?"

"Sure is," Bobby confirmed, proudly. "You ready for your carriage?"

A shadow passed over the younger Winchester's face and his eyes darkened. "I don't know, Bobby…"

"C'mon, Sam! Don't be such a girl. It's perfectly safe," Dean chided.

"That's not what I meant," Sam managed, struggling to fight against his brother's determination to ignore the seriousness of his injuries.

Dean recognised his brother's apprehension and realised that there was no way he was going to move him without a heart to heart first. Was he really that determined to get a chick-flick moment out of him? He squatted down beside Sam and lowered his voice so only his brother could hear. "Listen to me, Sam. I won't deny it – you're not well, but I'm not leaving you here on the ground. I'll get you patched up and everything _will_ be fine. But I can only do half of this, Sammy. You gotta believe it, too. You gotta be strong, man. Fight for me, fight for yourself and we'll come out of this laughing on the other side. Just you wait." Dean's firm hand rested on Sam's shoulder, willing his ailing brother to find strength in him when he could not find it in himself.

Sam's eyes roved over his brother's features as if searching for a crack in his words, a reason to give up, but Dean would offer him none. The pain in his back had subsided and the nausea had relinquished its hold for now, thanks to a lengthy stay on the ground. But nothing could tear his mind away from the fact that he couldn't walk, that he was paralysed, and that the blood all but sealed his fate to die in these woods.

"Sam," Dean urged, watching his little brother beginning to retreat into recesses of his mind that nobody could reach.

Sam flinched at the increased pressure on his shoulder but Dean would not let up. Nodding reluctantly, he whispered, "Okay."

"Thatta boy," Dean smiled. "Let's get you up on your royal litter then."

Bobby laid out the stretcher on the ground beside Sam. Dean helped his brother sit up and slung his arms under Sam's shoulders while the older hunter grabbed his legs. Together, the two men guided their charge onto the stretcher and settled his limbs as comfortably as they were going to get under the circumstances. If he felt any pain, Sam made no fuss of it, but allowed himself to be manoeuvred and lifted between his companions.

Dean peered down into his brother's face. "You okay?" Sam nodded, forcing a smile to his lips because he knew Dean needed to see it. "You ready?" Sam nodded once more, tightening his grip on the branch handles as his back decided to protest again. He lay as still as he could, trying not to be a dead weight, and allowed the pair to carry him the rest of the way to the river.

* * *

The sky was clouded with every shade of grey, refusing to commit to a thunderstorm or a light shower but threatening to be either or anything in between. The sun was completely obscured, its rays bouncing off the brooding clouds but never piercing their suffocating canopy. The river mirrored the grey as it assaulted the shingled bank with tumultuous eddies and waves. Dean narrowed his eyes and looked miserably up at the heavens, hardly believing that things could get any worse after your plane crashes but being proved endlessly wrong.

He and Bobby had settled Sam on a pile of all three sleeping bags to try and reduce the impact of the hard pebbles on his back. It was Dean's job to make a shelter for the pair of them while Bobby set off in search of help but, even with the older man's guidance, he doubted he'd manage to complete a decent cover before the rain started falling. So far he had managed to create a frame of branches tied together with a variety of vines and was now in the process of gathering foliage to weave through the frame. Being a man of action, he appreciated having something to do, but concern for Sam kept nagging at his mind and drawing it away from the tasks at hand.

For the hundredth time in half as many moments, his eyes travelled back to where his little brother was lying. Sam's face was ashen and, with his eyes closed, it would be easy to believe him dead. Dean had already shaken him awake several times in a panic, every time bringing Sam out of his exhausted slumber and every time causing him more pain. Cursing himself, Dean had promised himself he would not do it again, not unless it seemed truly called for. For now, he had to content himself with watching the hand Sam rested loosely on his abdomen rise and fall gently in time with his breathing.

Bobby had not left yet but was double checking that there was nothing else he should leave behind with the Winchester boys. Sometimes Dean would get frustrated with the sedentary pace of the older hunter but he also appreciated its uses. Bobby was a master of how to be prepared and Dean had to admit that they probably wouldn't have lasted the night without his wonderful magnesium stone. He watched the hunter do a last cursory check of his backpack before hoisting it onto his back and looking at the overgrown path ahead of him.

Dean felt a surge of momentary panic at the prospect of being left. He wanted to stay and care for Sam but he was even more afraid of failure. What if something happened to Sam that he couldn't deal with on his own? What if he didn't make the grade and got him killed? Dean breathed out slowly, forcing his brain to steady itself. 'Think, damn it,' he reproved himself. There was nothing he couldn't do for his little brother. Whatever Sam needed, he could supply. Bobby hadn't been there when Sam had experienced his first devastating vision, he hadn't been there when he'd been strangled with an electrical cord and he hadn't been there when Sam had lost Jessica and Dad had died. Dean had. He had supported his little brother through his darkest hours. He would do it a thousand times over and he could do it now.

"Here," Bobby said, striding over and stretching out his hand. "Just a few things you might need." Dean opened his palms to accept the assortment of items, examining them. Bobby's trusty magnesium stone, a small packet of ibuprofen and some matches.

A wry smile worked its way to Dean's lips. "A real little firestarter, huh?"

"Well, we all know fire's aren't your thing. I figured you'd need as many options as you could get," Bobby shot back.

Dean nodded, admitting defeat. "You sure you don't need any of this stuff?"

"I might be cautious but I'm not planning on getting hurt or making any campfires soon. If I'm right, I should be back with help in a few hours."

"And if you're not…right?" Dean asked, hardly daring to finish the question. He trusted Bobby but he knew the man couldn't work miracles.

"I'm right." Bobby's grey eyes bore into the young hunter's, holding him steady and Dean suddenly felt his own father's gaze upon him. It sent a whirl of emotions skidding around his gut – security, comfort but most of all, responsibility. He wasn't allowed to fall apart. He wasn't allowed to think the worst. That was a cross that only he could bear in the turmoil of his own head, echoing in his skull but never slipping past his lips.

Bobby tugged on the peak of his cap in a curt salute and strode off in the direction of salvation. He paused where Sam was lying and knelt down, resting a hand on the young man's shoulder. Sam's eyes opened blearily and peered up into the old hunter's face. "I'll see you soon," Bobby reassured.

Sam smiled feebly, fumbling one hand to make contact with Bobby's. "Okay," he murmured before allowing his eyes to slide closed once more.

* * *

Dean worked hard to complete the shelter as quickly as he could, knowing how imperative it was that Sam be shielded from the elements in the likely event that the heavens decided to open soon. His fingers were sore and cut from the rebellious branches and excessive use of his hunting knife. Finally it was done and he set about propping the leafy canopy on the struts he had erected around where Sam was sleeping. He and Bobby had set Sam down in the location they planned to stay in, reducing the opportunity for further injury and Dean was relieved that he wouldn't have to move his little brother again on his own. Just touching him made him fear he might do more damage.

Dean's mind kept wandering futilely back to the frightening fact that Sam had blood in his urine, a sure sign of internal damage. It scared the crap out of him that he couldn't aim his gun at something or beat some creature into oblivion to pay for the damage it had done to his brother. It tore Dean apart inside to know he could only watch and wait for help to come.

Sam stirred at the sound of movement above his head and opened his eyes to see a patchy leaf ceiling shielding him from the miserable skies. "Looks good," he said as Dean secured the sides to the struts.

Dean smiled. "Should do for now. Then I'm going to make a fire. You need anything?" he asked, knowing there was little Sam wanted that he could actually supply.

Sam smiled wryly, "I could murder a bagel."

"Sorry, no can do, bro." Dean was momentarily cheered by Sam's good mood. "That's good though…"

"What? That I'm hungry? Yeah, it's swell." Sam studied his brother's bushcraft construction with quiet criticism.

"I mean that you're hungry. Sick people don't usually eat," Dean shrugged, satisfied with his own argument even if Sam wasn't. Then he frowned, recognising that special 'Stanford' face his brother got when he was about to give his unwanted and unneeded opinion on something.

"Dean…?" Sam started, barely getting his brother's name out before Dean snapped back.

"What?! There's nothing wrong with it!" He gripped the canopy with both hands and shook it with a reasonable degree of force.

Sam raised his hands to protect his head. "Dean, no! Stop it! Look at that branch!" he pleaded, pointing to one of the upward struts. Sure enough, it was wobbling around unsteadily in the pebbly ground, looking on the point of near collapse.

Dean ducked his head under the canopy to see what Sam was looking at and shrugged, refusing to allow his brother the upper hand. "Aah, it's nothing! Quit being such a girl! Just needs shoring up a bit is all." He moved confidently around to the other side and pushed the branch deeper into the shingly bank until he was sure he had penetrated the sandy earth beneath. "There!" he announced proudly, sighing in satisfaction before plopping himself down beside Sam. The pebbles were hard underneath him but there was no way he was going to ask Sam to give up one of the sleeping bags.

Even on the bumpy surface, once he was lying on the ground, Dean could hardly muster the energy to set about making a fire. He hadn't realised how dog tired he was until he had finally stopped. The day's labours were already taking their toll on him but it was hardly surprising, given what they had endured in the past couple of days. He looked over at Sam, expecting to find him dozing off again but he was awake, staring up at nothing in particular. "How are you doing?" Dean probed.

Sam's eyes fluttered in his direction. "Okay, I guess." He didn't really want to talk about it. The pulsating aches throughout his body were hard enough to think past without actually having to verbalise it as well. He knew Dean meant well but Sam was too exhausted to take it any further. A momentary shiver ran through his tall frame, taking him by surprise. He felt surprisingly out of touch with his own body and its needs as if the disconnection from his legs had severed a more primal survival instinct.

Dean's brow furrowed in concern. "You cold?" he asked, reaching out and placing his hand over Sam's. He was immediately alarmed by the coolness of his little brother's skin against his own. "Okay, I'm building that fire. I'll have you warmed up in no time."

"M'okay," Sam protested unconvincingly. "You've just been running around."

Dean released his brother's hand and pulled himself up. "Maybe, but I could use the practice." He stalked away in search of appropriately sized firewood, sending another miserable glance up at the darkening skies. He would be lucky to get a spark going before it was extinguished by a downpour of rain. Still, it wasn't going to stop him trying. Sam needed to get warmed up as quickly as possible.

By the time he had finished building the fire, Dean felt a wave of satisfaction at a job well done. Sure, he still had to light the damned thing but, with Bobby's magnesium stone, he figured it should be a piece of cake. He looked over at Sam for approval, expecting that 'Stanford' critical eye to be casting itself over his wood offering. Dean was surprised to see himself confronted with Sam's back or at least as much of Sam's back as his injuries would allow.

While he knew his little brother needed rest, Dean had also clearly identified the despondent warning signs that Sam was struggling to deal with what was happening to him. Maybe now was a good time for another pep talks. "Hey, Sam. What do you think? You impressed?" He set his face into a smug grin but Sam's back remained ardently turned away from him. "You think I need any more twigs or something?" Dean chivvied, feeling increasingly perturbed when he still received no response.

"Hey, Sam," Dean tried again, more softly this time and moved to sit under the shelter next to his brother. "C'mon, Sammy. You've got one chick flick moment starting…now," he said, checking his watch jovially. Still Sam refused to acknowledge his brother's presence but his shoulders hunched a little bit more, shutting him out even further. "Fine then I'll do the talking. You'll have to forgive the technique, y'know. It's been a while since I've seen an episode of 'Dawson's Creek'." He laughed crudely at his own joke, unable to prevent himself from hiding behind the mask of his sarcasm. Times like these made him nervous. He didn't feel in control, like once he started placing a looking glass to his emotions, his whole soul would crack and he would be unable to piece it all back together. He and Dad had gone years burying their feelings, salting the remains that threatened to stink the place up. But Sam…Sam always shed light on them again.

In the familiar routine of family, John and Dean had both protected and ridiculed Sam's soft core but, secretly, when Sam had broken free of their damaging cycle, he had taken their reason for living with them. The goodness in the world that the Winchesters had devoted to protecting sank away into the darkness, leaving only room for their cantankerous misery and revenge. The sweet memory of Mary – a mother, a wife – was soaked in blood, sullied with negative emotion. Neither Dean nor John had realised it until he was gone, that Sam was the hope they pivoted around. Now, in the thinning light, feeling the pain emanating off his little brother in waves, Dean knew he had to rekindle that flame of hope before it went out and he was left alone in the dark forever.

"Sam, please…talk to me. Tell me what's going on in that overactive brain of yours." Dean waited and listened to the laboured, barely controlled breathing that told him Sam was fighting to hold back tears. He waited but Sam stoically refused to enter into any kind of exchange. "Sam…"

"Don't Dean," came the strangled, desperate request. "Just…don't, please."

"Why? C'mon, Sam. You can't keep holding everything in." Dean felt hypocritical, knowing that he would behave exactly the same way if it were him lying paralysed right now. Just imagining the scenario sent his mind spinning. It would kill him not to be active, to be effectively useless in the fight. How the hell was he supposed to turn Sam around when he knew he wouldn't handle it any better himself? He felt helpless and angry at himself for not knowing the words his brother needed to hear. "Look, I know this is hard, Sam, but it's all going to be all right. You've just got to trust in that."

Sam's shoulders heaved miserably, Dean's words bouncing hollowly off his battered brain. "Maybe this is what is right."

Dean perked up a little to know he was coaxing a bit of conversation out of Sam. "What do you mean?"

Sam sighed. "My destiny…my demonic future. Maybe this is how it should all end."

"You don't mean that," Dean asserted, sharply, refusing to lose his little brother down that road.

"Don't I?" Sam asked, his voice lost in despair. "This way I get to die when I'm still trying to do good, trying to fight it 'coz I…" He swallowed back the lump in his throat. "I don't know how much longer I could do it."

"Sam, you can't just give up at the first hurdle!" Dean said firmly.

"But this isn't the first hurdle, Dean," Sam replied, gingerly shifting himself so that he could see his older brother. Dean felt himself physically recoil from the void of desolation and hopelessness reflected back at him. "I battle with myself every day, feel myself slipping, losing a part of myself to that demon every time we…" He broke off, no longer sure he could trust his own voice to continue. Dean's face quivered in front of him, glazed and shimmering through his unshed tears. Sam knew how uncomfortable his brother was with emotions but Dean had drawn it out of him and, beneath the shame of his outpouring, Sam desperately wanted someone to make it right.

Sam closed his eyes, feeling the hot wetness of his own tears squeezing out past his eyelashes but he made no move to wipe them away. "I'm tired of it, Dean. I'm just tired…and nothing ever seems to get better. It only ever gets worse."

Dean watched the tears course down his brother's cheeks unchecked, feeling his own prickling behind his eyes. "Listen, Sam. I know that feeling, I know how hard it can be to go on when it all seems hopeless but…. You've still got me, okay? It might not be much but we've got to stick together. If you even knew how many times you've pulled me through situations I never thought I'd see past…. Just hang on in there. Do it for me if you can't do it for yourself."

Sam's jaw twitched as he tried to rein in his emotions but he didn't reply. Dean continued, "It seems pretty hopeless now but you've got to remember some of this is the pain talking. Sam? Just try to keep hold of that, okay? Pain'll make you do crazy things, think crazy thoughts but when it's gone, it's gone, man. Bobby's going to be back soon and we'll get you patched up. You'll be walking out of that hospital in a few days and you won't even be able to fathom the feelings you're experiencing now." He waited to see if Sam was listening to him. "Sam? You hearin' me?"

Finally, Sam nodded and ran a hand over his face, drying his tears. "Yeah."

Dean felt relief wash over him. It was a short-term fix but it had to do for now. If he could keep Sam's spirits up just until help arrived, it was enough. "You warming up yet?" he asked, trying to prevent his little brother's mind from wandering back to the negative thoughts plaguing his mind.

Sam raised his eyebrows, groggily assessing himself. "I guess, I don't know…"

It perturbed Dean that he didn't even seem to have a grip on what his own body was doing but he hid his misgivings the best he could. He reached out and pressed his hand against Sam's, disliking the coolness he found there. "C'mon, let's get you closer to the fire." He leaned over and helped his little brother into something close to a sitting position and helped him inch his protesting body and the sleeping bags closer to the flickering flames.

Sam winced as he tried to settle himself into a comfortable position. "Thanks, Dean," he murmured.

Dean sank down beside his brother, suddenly feeling an overwhelming fatigue take over every limb in his body. "Man, I'm tired," he breathed, his eyes closing against his better judgement. Just for a minute, he thought.

* * *

Dean awoke to a gnawing pain in his shoulder and reached out to investigate, feeling the hardness of stones beneath him before he even opened his eyes. They snapped open sharply as the memories of where he was flooded back into his conscious brain. He hissed in a breath as he sat up, allowing each and every ache to make themselves known. The sky was a miserable shade of iron grey and, from the looks of the ground around him, it had rained sometime since he had been asleep. Dean looked at his wristwatch but the time meant nothing since he had no idea when he had closed his eyes. His eyes travelled to the fire, noting how depleted it was beginning to look. It must have been at least an hour if not longer.

He yawned and scrubbed at his sticky eyes with his fists, his brain slowly whirring into action. "Sam…" he began, turning to the pile of sleeping bags to his left. Dean's words were halted when he realised that it was, indeed, nothing more than a pile of fabric. Sam was no longer buried beneath them. "Sam?" Dean barked, feeling like someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him. He stood up, his eyes darting nervously over the shore line and the edge of their camp. "Sam!" Momentarily, he wondered if his little brother would have attempted to go for a toilet break on his own. "Sam!" he called again, more urgently.

Dean took a step closer to the tree line, his eyes scanning desperately for any sign of his brother. He whirled on his feet, almost instantly lighting upon a crumpled form near the water's edge. "Sam!" he shouted, skidding to a halt beside the inert form of his brother lying on the bank. "Oh God!" he cried as he took in the scene before him.

Sam was lying face down on the shingle, one hand loosely wrapped around a plastic camping cup. His face was wan and drained of colour, his brow still creased into the residual lines of pain he had felt as he went down. Dean drew trembling fingers to his brother's neck, feeling for a pulse. It was rapid and weak and Sam's skin was cold and clammy wherever Dean touched him. "Sammy?" he urged, cupping his brother's cheek. "Sam, wake up."

Sam stirred a little, following the sound of his brother's voice. The crease of his forehead deepened and dark eyes opened but they didn't see Dean. They wandered lazily over the objects directly in front of him, gliding meaninglessly over the pebbles and water, up to the trees and the sky before Dean forced himself into his little brother's view. "Hey, Sam. Look at me."

Hands cajoled his face again and sluggishly Sam's gaze lingered over his brother. Sam's mouth opened, working to form words but lacking the voice to do it. "Wa…".

Dean leaned in close. "What're you saying?"

"Thirsty…" Sam said, his voice almost lost in the sounds of nature around them.

"Is that what you were up to?" Dean asked, already knowing the answer but knowing it was important to keep his brother awake at whatever cost.

Sam nodded and his fingers tightened a little around the cup he was holding. Dean allowed his palm to smoothly stroke Sam's hair away from his cheek before breaking the contact completely. He prised his brother's cold fingers away from the cup and went to get his own water flask. He didn't care that they were in the land of crystal mineral waters, he didn't trust it to be clean enough for an already sick man and he wasn't about to take any chances. Bringing it back to his brother, Dean gently manoeuvred Sam into a position where he could drink, hating the roll of tortured emotions that ran across his little brother's face as he did so.

Dean watched closely as Sam swallowed the water, each sip causing his face to contort into lines of unspoken pain. "Tell me where it hurts the most," he demanded. He didn't like the way Sam's colouring had paled to green translucence and the shallow, rapid beating of his heart was worrying at best. Dean hadn't noticed how wet his brother was at first but now he could see that all of Sam's clothes were damp. He must have been lying out there, exposed to the elements, for at least part if not all of the recent rain shower. God, was there nothing he was going to be spared from! Dean felt angry at himself for not being more vigilant. He should have been awake, watching over his little brother. Damn it, Sam was paralysed, verging on the edge of the abyss emotionally and he had been taking a nap. "Sam? Tell me how you feel," Dean instructed, refusing to let go of his query.

Sam drained the last of the water, shaking his head at the offer of more. He sat silently for a moment as if contemplating what Dean had asked. His brown eyes wandered softly over the river scene ahead of him, never halting on anything, his brain unable to linger on one thought for any length of time. Dean was about to probe for an answer again when Sam spoke. "I feel better, Dean," he sighed wearily. His jaw clamped shut on the final word, his energy spent on that one statement.

"Better? Better than what? Better than being eviscerated? Better than a car wreck?!" Dean tried to control his emotions. Sam's sudden calm detachment was making him nervous. He had been the patient and the nurse enough times in his life to recognise when shock was settling in and it was staring him in the face right now. "Sam!"

Sam put a hand to his head as if trying to ward off Dean's words, to stop them from entering his head. "Better than before, Dean," he whispered in resignation, clearly already fatigued by his brother's relentless pushing.

Dean felt mean for nagging at Sam in his current state but it was the only way to keep him awake and functioning. He wasn't about to let his brother drift off into some semi-conscious state of shock and a part of him was still hoping with a bit of warmth and nourishment, Sam would miraculously take a turn for the better. "Sam, listen. We've got to get you out of those clothes and into something dry. You're gonna freeze," he added, already noting the way his brother was starting to shiver.

"'kay," came the all too compliant response. Sam allowed Dean to wrap one strong arm around his waist and pull him up just enough to drag his useless legs back towards the dry shelter of their canopy. Dean rearranged the sleeping bags beneath Sam, cajoling him to keep his eyes open in between. He rummaged in Sam's bag for the spare change of clothes he had packed for the hunt. A crumpled pair of jeans and a dark blue greyhound T-shirt unfurled in his hands and Dean laid them out beside Sam. "Okay," he announced, looking over Sam as if unsure of what to do next. He wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of stripping another man, even if that man was his own brother. It had been many years since he had been in such a position and Sam had just been a kid. Still, there was no time for being a wimp about the matter. Sam's shivering was already subsiding rapidly, a sure sign of shock, and even the goose bumps that had stood out along his arms were disappearing as his body closed in upon itself.

Dean moved behind his brother and supported Sam's back and, at first, his little brother tried to help by raising his arms as the T-shirt was pulled off over his head and even managed to fumbled the jeans past his knees before needing Dean's help. But by the time Dean had produced the fresh change of clothes, Sam was having trouble keeping up with what was going on. His limbs flopped uselessly, directionless and uncoordinated. No matter what Dean said to coach him, Sam struggled to keep track of what he was being asked to do. "Work with me here, bro," Dean coaxed gently, but Sam was beyond instructions. Dean gripped his brother's wrist and guided his arm through the sleeve of his T-shirt, first one then the other. He pulled Sam's jeans up to his waist and laid his own jacket across his chest to add an extra layer of warmth. "Any better?" Dean asked, willing Sam's eyes to open from where he had drifted off to. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes slowly opened but they were glazed and shimmering, looking in Dean's direction but not actually seeing him at all. Dean moved closer, noting with grim affirmation the dilated pupils. Sam was going into shock and he had already done everything he could to help him out here in this god forsaken place. His skin was pale and clammy, pulse weak and rapid, his breathing was shallow at best and now, with dilated pupils and lack of coherency, Dean had to admit how far gone his brother was now.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, wanting to do something more to ease his brother's suffering. But the answer was worse than any catalogue of injuries and pains.

"No, no pain. I'm fine…" Sam murmured, his eyes already clouding over as his heavy lids closed. Confusion gave way to complete detachment from the real world but somewhere in his brain, neurons were firing randomly, connecting the dots to give him the comfort he so desperately needed. "Wake me when Dad gets back…" then the darkness closed in.

END OF PART 6

Sorry for the huge delay on that chapter. It was a bitch to write for some reason! I hope I'm back on track now. Despite telling myself I wouldn't buy into the crappy UK Season 2 Part 1 box set they're trying to make us buy, I couldn't resist. Just one trip into Woolworths and I found myself unable to resist. Damn those money-grubbing people! Still, I'm hoping it will give me hours of ripe fodder for writing!


	7. The Spirit World

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Okay, so this is the beginning of the Dean whumpage! That is not to say that Sam lovers should allow their hearts to sink just yet because he is far from being out of the woods… metaphorically and literally! I know this chapter is short but it seemed like the right place to leave it, 'coz you're all loving my cliff-hangers, aren't you?!

A huuuuuuuuggggggge thank you to the people who have been reviewing. I'm so amazed by the encouraging things you have been saying and I can't believe what a dedicated audience I have who really seem to read it word for word. I really can't thank you enough. You make my week whenever I open my inbox and find a new review.

PART 7 : THE SPIRIT WORLD

Dean watched over Sam, tried to calm his moments of panic. At first he tried to keep his brother rooted in the present, gently drawing him back from the brink of the abyss but, each time, Sam grew more agitated until Dean couldn't take it any more. He began to whisper the lies his little brother needed to hear – told him that Dad was on his way, that he had called Jessica. With tears in his eyes, Dean told Sam everything was going to be all right. Lies. Empty lies that made him feel more alone than this unforgiving wilderness could ever do.

"Sam, please. Come back to me…" he whispered, laying a steadying hand on Sam's forehead and feeling the clamminess of shock shiver through his own flesh. Sam shifted beneath Dean's touch, lost in a world of confusion as his body shut down under the trauma it had endured. He looked fragile. Through all the years, the years that Dean had watched out for Sam, kept him safe, his little brother had seemed a lot of things – needy, helpless, sweet, a pain-in-the-ass, but never fragile. It was like he was shedding his physical presence piece by piece, all the attributes that made him Sam, Dean's beloved brother, were slowly peeling away while Dean was forced to watch. It seemed a year ago that they were arguing over the plane trip, six months since they shared a turkey sandwich around the campfire with Bobby. How could the Sam Dean recalled be slipping away from him so fast?

Dean continued to watch over him, clutching at his self-control whenever it threatened to leave him once and for all. He held Sam's hand in his own, hoping to transfer some of his own waning strength to his ailing brother, but he soon questioned if Sam even knew he was there anymore.

Time marched on through the world, oxygen for the flame of Death that took souls with it from every country, every second. What would stop the reaper from coming for Sam now? Dean tried to push his doubts from his mind but, alone in the encroaching darkness of evening, he had nothing left to cling to but the tiny seed of hope that told him Death wouldn't do this to him…not again. The older Winchester looked up at the dusky sky, the rain clouds parting to allow pinpricks of stars already pressing in against the waning daylight. Dean wondered if Bobby was on his way, a team of rescuers at his back, or if he had been thwarted by reasoning that it was growing too dark. "We'll go at first light. We'll never find them in the dark." Dean heard the words clearly in his head. Bobby wouldn't let them off that easy though. He'd fight them like a wild thing, come back on his own if he had to…wouldn't he? Dad had trusted the old hunter with his life. Bobby wouldn't let them down.

Looking back at Sam, Dean was surprised to see that his brother's eyes were open, glassy and shallow but open nonetheless. He was looking ahead and Dean squeezed his hand. "Sammy?" he whispered, a little wary of what his brother's mental state might be. For a while now, Sam had wandered between hallucinations, disorientation and moments of startling lucidity before detaching himself again from the world completely.

Sam's eyes drifted sluggishly towards the voice before settling on his brother. Dean smiled warmly, "Hey there, kiddo." Sam stared mutely back, his brown eyes devoid of the lively soul they usually so readily reflected. "Sam?"

"Dea…" came the wraith-like whisper, strangled before the word even left his lips.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me. I'm right here." Dean rubbed his brother's hand between his own, willing Sam to keep a hold in this world.

"Dean?" Sam called again, causing Dean's heart to lurch sickeningly in his chest at the prospect that his brother didn't even recognise him anymore. Then Sam continued, "Tired…"

"Yeah, I k now, I know y'are, Sammy. But you've gotta try to stay awake for me. Can you do that?"

"Mmm, I'll try," Sam replied, but his tone was far from convincing. He looked hard at his big brother for a while and Dean wished he knew what was running through his head. The glazed look Sam had was clearing but Dean's relief was short lived when their brown depths were suddenly clouded with pain and confusion. "My back…" Sam gasped.

"I know, Sam. Just rest easy. It'll be okay. I'm gonna take care of you, okay?" Dean tried to placate Sam's distress, pressing a firm hand to his brother's shoulder. Then, like a light had been switched off, Sam's head lolled and his eyes floated meaninglessly over the space beside him, pupils dilated and unfocused. Dean moved his hand up to cup his brother's neck. "Sam?! Stay with me, okay?"

Sam's eyes drifted back to Dean one last time, trying desperately to make his body comply with the request but he couldn't fight the darkness. "Dean…I can't feel my legs…" His eyes closed under heavy lids and he didn't even hear Dean's half-sobbed plea before he went under.

* * *

Finally, the heavens opened. Not just a light drizzle, hell, not even a typical passing rain cloud, but a rain storm of which Dean had never seen the like. Within seconds, everything in sight was drenched and Dean shifted closer to Sam, hugging his knees. He had not left much room for himself under the shelter, only really caring about keeping his brother out of the unforgiving path of the elements. Now, Dean realised, he had failed even to do that. Sam's long legs meant that his feet were still exposed and the rain was pelting down on the foot of the sleeping bag. Dean was terrified of damaging Sam's back further by moving him around unnecessarily but he also couldn't afford to let his brother get any colder than he already was.

Dean shifted forwards and grabbed the foot of the sleeping bag, feeling Sam's bony ankles beneath the fabric. He lifted them to the side, slowly bringing them up into a more bent position then allowed them to flop as gently as possible into a more comfortable position under the shelter. Satisfied that Sam wasn't in any more danger of getting hypothermia than he had been minutes before, Dean set about his next task. Rain still dripped through the makeshift shelter and he felt momentarily guilty that he had been so quick to build the roof. He hadn't considered the consequences of not bothering to build it right but now Sam's life hung in the balance and he was getting pelted with freezing rain to boot.

"Be right back, Sammy," he declared, knowing his brother wouldn't hear him but needing the reassurance for himself. Dean ignored the chill that had taken hold in his bones and braced himself as he moved out from under the shelter and started hunting for more foliage to reinforce the shelter roof with. He didn't like the idea of moving away from Sam and the camp but it had to be done if they were going to survive the storm without drowning in it.

Cursing under his breath for being so lax at his job in the first place, Dean hacked away at the low hanging branches. He ignored the brambles that tore at his hands until the blood ran freely, mingling with the raindrops. Finally, he felt satisfied that he had gathered enough to weave securely through the shelter and fill the gaps. Dean headed back to the camp, still dimly lit by the sputtering embers of his hard-built fire. Then, without reason, he paused. Everything looked the same but Dean could feel it in his bones…something wasn't right. Despite the chill and the pounding rain, there was a stealthy stillness, a creepy feeling of being watched. Were he any other person, from any other family, Dean would have dismissed it as his mind playing tricks. But he was a Winchester and Winchesters knew what lurked in the darkness. "Sam…" Dean breathed, dropping his armful of branches but gripping his knife tighter.

He moved swiftly and silently towards where his brother was screened by the leaf shelter. The moment Dean saw his brother's feet, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. Then, the moment was snatched away when he realised Sam's entire torso was hidden from view by a shadow. The shadow seemed formless but dark as onyx even in the dwindling light. "Get away from him, you son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, launching himself at Sam's aggressor with his knife poised for blood or whatever this creature leaked.

Dean had barely taken a step before the shadow whirled on him, its body rising through the canopy above Sam like a ghost in ether, impervious to the objects in its path. It reached a height just beyond that of an average adult male, towering just enough to be sinister and intimidating. It took on a physical shape not dissimilar to a human but its limbs seemed to be lost in a swirling mist, its face unidentifiable in the shadows. It seemed to look right through Dean, pierce him with a coldness that struck the young man to the core. Then it was gone.

Dean hardly faltered a second before racing to Sam's side. "Sam!" he hollered, desperately, falling to his knees at his brother's side. The sleeping bag had been drawn back to Sam's waist and his shirt and T-shirt had been cut open with almost knife-like precision. Even the careful rib bindings Dean had secured had been sliced through. Sure enough, just like the pictures Sam had been examining on the plane before the crash, a meticulous cross-hatching pattern had begun to be etched across his little brother's chest. The design was unfinished but the regularity of the markings was unmistakeable. Whatever creature they had set out to hunt had stumbled across them instead. In any other situation, Dean would have been thrilled that they no longer even had to hunt their prey anymore, but not today. Today it was the worst scenario they could possibly have encountered.

Paralysing horror clutched at Dean for a moment as the fresh blood oozed from the shallow cuts and ran down Sam's ribs and pooled in the gathered fabric of his T-shirt at his sides. Mingled with the rain, the damage looked worse than it was and Dean quickly set about wiping away the worst of it with the edge of the bandages. Sam's skin was cold and clammy, his face white as a sheet. It was more frightening still that, even in his state, he had failed to awake when a wraith-like creature was carving up his chest. Dean dropped his knife, ensuring it was still close at hand should the creature return. He was doubtful that a blade would have any effect but it was all he had to hand. Right now, looking after Sam was his biggest priority.

The older Winchester fumbled with cold hands to pull the rib bindings back over the bloodied, bruised mess that was Sam's chest. He tied the bandages as securely as he could and tugged the T-shirt together then buttoned the shirt back up before pulling the sleeping bag as far up Sam's body as he could get it. It wasn't much but it was all he could do. Dean had stripped off whatever clothes he could spare and daren't remove anything else if he was going to survive the freezing weather himself. He needed to stay healthy and strong for Sam's sake. He pressed two fingers to Sam's neck, his cold fingers barely able to feel the pulse beating erratically beneath the skin. "Damn it, Bobby. Hurry up!" he murmured.

Sam was out cold and nothing his desperate brother could say or do raised him back into consciousness. It was not a good sign. The shock had told Dean as much but now there were no more symptoms to diagnose. Sam had retreated so far inside himself as his body struggled to fight its impending demise. Dean couldn't judge how much longer his little brother had but, if his limited experience of internal injuries were anything to go by, it wouldn't be much. Bobby's eyes had said it all before he left. He knew the score. It was a comfort to know the old hunter would be doing whatever it took to bring help in time but his muted departure had spoken volumes about his dim outlook for Sam.

Unable to rouse Sam, Dean had to content himself with holding his hand, rubbing it between his own for warmth. The friction between their skin caused a little heat but it was a sad imitation of bodily warmth and disappeared mere instants later. Dean tried to find refuge in thinking about the creature he had chased away. Usually, Sam gave him the low down about his new found prey over dinner at the local diner. Since they hadn't made it that far and Dean hadn't exactly been listening to what Bobby and Sam had talking about on the plane before it went down, he was forced to try and draw on his own knowledge for the answers.

He had heard plenty of legends about forest spirits and, of course, he'd had his own personal audience with a wendigo, but this was unlike anything Dean could recall seeing or hearing about before. He remembered reading a story about the Algonquin spirit known as Mikumwess, but it was more of a moral fable than anything to take as truth. He wracked his brains for some other explanation but his mind kept wandering back to the same chilling memory. The shadowy figure had trailed into the woods like a swarm of bees, thick and dark with a solid direction and purpose. Only one other creature Dean had ever come across moved like that – the demon they had been hunting all his life. But it couldn't be. It was hiding from the Winchester family, toying with them and inhabiting them. Unless…Dean felt dread creeping through him as he recalled Meg's demise. He had taken her broken body and reanimated it for his devilish purposes. Had that been its plan for Sam? To take him when he was on the verge of death and bring him back to life as some meat puppet? It made Dean nauseous just to contemplate such a horrific fate for his little brother. To be held prisoner inside your own dying body, unable to move or speak? Worse still, to be held hostage by the very creature that had killed those you loved unconditionally.

Dean shivered involuntarily and tried to turn his mind back to the facts of the case. He took comfort in that. The demon couldn't be involved. Dad had been on its trail for a long time. These strange carved up bodies had been recorded for years. In a moment of sick realisation, Dean was forced to admit that he understood a lot more of the demon than he cared to. He was closer to its motivations than he had ever been. Everything John Winchester had known, he had given up in order to save his eldest from Death's clutches. Dean had been returned to this world by demonic means and he was the only one with the power to destroy the creature that had destroyed his family. It taken his mother, his father and he'd be damned if it would take Sam from him as well. No, the demon wouldn't be out here toying with the innocent. It had plans, plans for 'all the children like' Sam.

Dean's jaw tightened and he felt the adrenaline surging through his veins as he clutched his knife in white knuckles. He looked down at Sam's drawn face, the colour and warmth leached from the younger man's flesh in a frightening premonition of the crossroads his soul would soon reach. "Don't leave me, Sam. You can't leave me now…"

Suddenly, Dean's words caught in his throat. He could feel it again, the presence, the strange pressure of being watched. The creature was still here. Dean reached for his backpack this time, rummaging to find his gun. He had loaded it with rock salt before the trip and he could only hope that it was the best recipe to deal with whatever this thing was. "Be right back, Sammy," he whispered, more for his own comfort, and ducked out of the shelter to move closer to the tree line.

He waited for a few minutes, wondering how long he would have to stand in the rain before his entire body cramped up once and for all. Dean kept one eye out for Sam the whole time. He wasn't about to fall into the spirit's trap so that it could finish the job it had started. Then, there it was, barely recognisable in the darkness. It was nothing more than a shadow moving, almost invisible in perfect harmony with its surroundings. Dean could feel its closeness almost better than he could see it. It was sliding through the undergrowth to his left, several feet further into the forest. It was completely silent but Dean already had it in his sights. He wondered if it would still be silent with a round of rock salt in its chest. Lowering the gun to rest on his left arm, Dean narrowed his eyes and tracked it for a couple of seconds until he had a good shot.

In a split second, hollow eyes, dark as onyx locked onto Dean with fiendish intensity but the hunter's finger had already flown to the trigger. The spirit took the hit to its torso but Dean didn't have a chance to see where before it flew at him with unnatural speed, knocking him to his knees before he could fire off another round. It let out a high-pitched screeched followed by a series of self-pitying cackles that floated away on the air and Dean quickly pulled himself up, gun poised again for another attack. He whirled around in a circle, keeping his eyes wide open for any sign of the creature. Dean couldn't be certain but he was pretty sure that it would seek refuge to nurse its wounds. Still wary, the hunter headed back to Sam and the small mercy that was their leafy shelter.

He had made it to the edge of the woods and Sam's feet were already in sight when Dean felt a sharp sting across his back. It took a second for him to register what had happened, thinking a branch had sprung back against him. Then, the tingling pain deepened into something more reminiscent of a knife slash. He raised a hand to investigate but was spun with dizzying force by another slash to his right shoulder. This time, it knocked him to the ground. Dean fought the need to clutch at his shoulder and forced his arm up, holding the gun, aiming it wildly at the dark forest around him.

The wind made the trees rustle, drowning out the hunting sounds Dean relied on and making it difficult to focus his eyes on anything but the foliage swaying back and forth. In the cold, wet air, Dean could feel his own leaking blood even more keenly. He could feel the warm trickles running down his chest and back but he would not let his focus waver. For a moment, Dean thought he had the creature in his sights again but, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone again. Then, another claw-like blow caught him across the face, furrowing deep gouges across his forehead and down the left side of his face. Dean cried out, unwittingly. Blood ran down into his eyes and he wiped at it, ignoring the sparks of pain it ignited with every touch.

Dean was still in the process of trying to reorient himself when the next attack came. Another slash across his chest that sent him flying into the trees behind him, the impact winding the young Winchester and sending stars whizzing in his brain. A vice-like grip yanked him by the leg, dragging him deeper and deeper into the forest.

The hunter could hear the sound of running water fading from his ears and realised that he was being dragged further from the river but, worse still, further from Sam. Dean struggled to try and grab hold of anything he passed but he was cruelly torn from each tree trunk and branch he tried to cling to. His fingers grappled with brambles, tearing the skin on his palms to pieces but Dean would not acknowledge the pain. There was nothing more important than stopping this damned creature. It seemed to move at lightning speed. The woods whipped past him with inordinate velocity but Dean's brain suppressed the fear that he was being taken too far away to find his way back to Sam. He detached his thoughts from his body, ignoring its needs, and took aim at the space beyond his feet. Closing his eyes and allowing the hunter in him to take over, Dean took a deep, steadying breath and fired.

The shriek that assaulted his ears left Dean with a buzzing noise that he couldn't shake. At first, it continued moving forwards, its ethereal body refusing to admit eternal defeat. Then, Dean felt his leg released and, in the gloom of the forest, he saw the shadows break apart into smaller and smaller pieces until there was nothing but black dust motes dancing in the air and then even those were gone.

Dean drew in a heaving, ragged breath and allowed his head to fall back against the wet ground. He felt dizzy and light-headed. His body was soaking wet. It was warmer than rain, running down his chilled skin. For a moment, he took comfort in it before Dean forced himself to roll over and drag himself to his knees. Using the gun as an aid, he swayed to his feet and reached out to the nearest tree for support. Blood from his face still clouded his vision but he stumbled forwards in the direction he thought he had come. "Sam," he slurred, the word alone spurring him forwards…deeper into the darkness.

END OF PART 7


	8. Currents Turn Awry

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : First up, I have to make huge apologies for taking so long with this update. There are only a few months in each year when life seems to get completely crazy and I think I've just been having them. Hopefully, now the holiday is stretching away before me, I can concentrate on our lovely boys once more. Thank you to all my fab supporters, reviewers and especially the chivviers who have sent me messages prodding me into guilty action once more! I know this is a bit short but I just needed to get back into the story.

I looked up Jim Beaver on IMDB to find out Bobby's surname because I can't remember whether it was ever said in the show. They have it down as 'Singer' so that's what I've used here. Plus, I apologise here for any medical rubbish I spew in the following chapters. I've tried my best and none of us are here for an education in medicine, I hope!

PART 8 : CURRENTS TURN AWRY

Bobby's eyes were fixed on the shadowy shapes at the water's edge, his brain frantically trying to catalogue and assimilate what he was seeing. He desperately wanted to make the dark lumps of tree looming ahead fit his recollection of the campsite he had left. Everything and nothing looked familiar. Bobby cursed under his breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the boat tightly. The vessel was little more than a dinghy, designed to navigate the dips and shallows of the river as it wound its way to the harbour. The party consisted of two medics and a member of the wildlife service, the latter steering the boat down the waterways while the former shone their searchlights over the banks. The yellow orbs illuminated patches of quivering foliage before dancing like twin fireflies onto the next section of undergrowth.

Bobby felt better for being back in the wilds once more. It had seemed surreal to suddenly emerge from the brush into the edge of civilisation. Every frenzied step away from Sam and Dean had been filled with urgency and anxiety. Suddenly, safety and rescue was in his grasp but, instead of feeling relief, Bobby had felt helpless and frustrated. There was nothing more for him to do for now. He had run to the nearest building, a bait shop with one sickly, yellow light casting a glow from a top window. It had taken minutes of banging and shouting before the owner had finally opened the door and listened to the hunter's garbled story. His response was instant, calling for the wildlife service straightaway. Bobby was given a hot cup of coffee while he waited for the emergency services to rally themselves. He hardly felt the liquid down his throat, so intent were his thoughts on the boys he had left behind.

He soon took to pacing backwards and forwards, unable to quell his need to be doing something. Finally, the squeal of truck tyres outside the shop signalled the arrival of the rescue party. The bait shop owner, Morton, opened the door and beckoned the team inside where they were quickly introduced to Bobby. The two paramedics, Bill and Gemma, had come from a larger town ten miles away and the wildlife service officer, Dan, looked weather-beaten enough to know the local terrain like the back of his hand. This reassured Bobby, who was trying to keep his cool and inform them of the predicament while every fibre of his being wanted to be making headway back to the Winchester boys.

"Can we use one of your boats, Mort?" Dan asked. "We'll be able to keep our path straight and get easy access to the beach by going down river."

"Sure thing. You want me to steer?" Morton asked, looking for a way to provide the most effective aid.

"No, I want you here as a relay. With the changing winds, my walkie might not get an effective signal. I want a middle man who can pass on any vital information. Can you do that?" Dan asked, his expectations clearly etched on his weathered face. He didn't need any useless spectators gawping and getting in the way when he was working. The only people coming on this trip were the vital ones. Morton nodded, mutely, his face looking a little crestfallen.

Bobby had followed gratefully as Dan spurred the medics into action and headed out to the boat moorings. He seemed to know his way around the yard well and that gave Bobby further cause to feel reassured that the boys were going to be in safe hands soon. Dan thrust a flashlight into the hunter's hand as he fumbled with the ropes tethering the dinghy. Within minutes, the small team were paddling down the river, Dan's bulging neck muscles showing the strain of pushing against the strong current but they had made good headway.

Now, the frenzied impatience of getting help was altered to a different sort of frustration, that of stationary waiting. Bobby questioned his own memory over and over, praying that the next bend would bring unequivocal recognition. Endless swathes of silver-lit water slid beneath them, each bank appearing hopefully into view, Bobby's eyes directed fiercely on the shadowy landscape and his breath bated. "It can't be much further," he stated, gruffly, feeling his companions' anticipation turn to vague suspicion that they had made a mistake.

Bobby's certainty was reaching its lowest ebb when the next twist in the river sent his heart soaring. "There!" he shouted, the flashlight beam dancing across the bank but even its powerful rays could not illuminate much further than the shingly shore. Dan steered the small boat towards Bobby's light and, within moments, the bottom scraped the river bottom and Bobby did not wait for instructions before leaping out into the calf deep water and waded as fast as he could to the shore. "Dean!" he hollered, turning his flashlight onto the lean-to shelter he had left Sam under. To his relief, a dark, human shape still remained beneath it and, despite knowing the poor shape the young man had been in, Bobby couldn't stop himself calling out for Sam.

The older hunter stumbled to his knees beside the younger Winchester, discarding the flashlight near Sam's head as he looked him over. The paramedics were not far behind him, leaving Dan to drag the boat up onto the safety of the shore where it could not be dislodged by the strong pull of the river. Bobby didn't like to admit it out loud but Sam looked even worse than he had before the hunter had left. He instinctively pressed a solid hand to the boy's forehead, feeling the coolness seep into his own flesh. Clenching his jaw, Bobby prayed grimly that they hadn't arrived too late.

Bill and Gemma wasted no time in assessing their patient and Bobby moved aside to allow them to work efficiently. Throughout, his eyes never left Sam. He watched as Gemma felt Sam's wrist for a pulse, her face unreadable. She called Sam's name over and over, tapping his cheek firmly. Bobby prayed that the boy would reply, that he would give them some sign that they weren't too late. Sam's eyes remained closed, lashes dark against his bruised and cut skin. His cheeks were hollow and his lips slightly parted as if to release a final breath. It was disconcerting to see. Bobby had never seen Sam injured before. John and Dean had always taken the front line, had always thrown themselves headlong into the fray like men with a death wish whenever Sam was in the slightest danger. Bill slid his hands over the young man's body, calling out the injuries as he came across each one. "Contusion behind right ear, minor abrasions to face and neck." His hands moved down to Sam's chest, drawing back the sleeping bag and frowning at the mangled mess he was confronted with. Bobby's face contorted into a similar expression. That was not the way Sam's dressings had looked when he had left and Dean wouldn't dream of leaving Sam like this unless he had to.

With Sam in safe hands, Bobby's thoughts turned to Dean's absence, growing more conspicuous by the moment. In the frenzy of the team's arrival, Bobby had been more concerned with whether Sam was still alive. His brain had dismissed the older Winchester's disappearance as nothing more than a moment out to take a leak or gather firewood. Now it had been longer than a moment and Dean would never have left his injured brother unattended for more a second out here. "Dean?" he called, rising to his feet. "Dean!" he shouted, dread constricting his chest once more. In spite of everything that had happened, Bobby hadn't forgotten the reason they were all out there in the first place. Those Winchesters had a way of attracting supernatural trouble, courting it whether they intended to or not. There was no way Dean had gone off to do anything as trivial as collect firewood. Something had happened to him.

Dan approached Bobby, a hefty rucksack slung across his back. "Is he missing?"

Bobby glanced at the officer for a second before turning back to the tree line. "He wouldn't leave Sam alone in his condition, not unless…" His voice tailed off, refusing to complete the thought or the sentence and noting his true concerns would label him a complete freak.

Dan regarded the hunter silently for a moment before replying. "Was he injured? Is there any chance he's just laying somewhere round here, unconscious?"

Bobby began to shake his head but thought it was better to prepare for any eventuality. "He was fine when I left but he had a bump to the head himself in the crash. He's been fine the past day or so though. I'd be surprised…"

"You would be surprised indeed at the crazy shit that happens to people out here, Mr. Singer. Never underestimate what a few days out here can do to a man's stamina." Dan shone his own light onto the undergrowth. "Well, let's start here," he said, pointing at a carved pathway directly ahead of them. We walk at the same pace, forwards only, ten feet apart. Shine your light on everything. Everything!" he emphasised, his eyes boring into Bobby. The hunter nodded, disliking the condescending manner but appreciating the solidity of a man who seemed to know exactly what he was doing. "His name's Dean?" Bobby nodded. "Okay, well, we'll keep calling him at regular intervals. but we need silence, too, to listen out for any responses. Ready?" Bobby nodded again and followed the officer's lead, sparing a momentary glance back at where the two medics were bent over Sam's inert body.

Meanwhile, Sam's inventory of injuries continued as Bill gently but swiftly undid the rest of the bloodied bandages bound across the young man's chest. Dark, mottled bruises stood out in stark relief across his rib cage, the markings beginning to show a definite line where his torso had impacted with something hard. Those were, no doubt, inflicted during the plane crash from what Mr. Singer had already told them. The strange lacerations across the flesh over these bruises was more difficult to explain though. It was unusual to say the least to find both blunt trauma and such clear, sharp wounds in the same place. Bill could only imagine that these were caused after the initial crash but it was hard to believe one person could have such bad luck. Bill thought his eyes must be deceiving him but it looked very much like there was some sort of pattern to the lacerations, the way they criss-crossed across Sam's chest in such a regular fashion. He relayed the vital information to his partner, listening to her assessment as well. "We've got shallow breath sounds on left but I don't think he's punctured anything. Still, let's get some extra O2. I don't want to take any chances out here." Gemma gripped Sam's jaw and peered into his slack mouth, checking for any obstructions that they might have missed. Bill retrieved an ambu-bag from his kit and placed it over Sam's nose and mouth, squeezing at regular intervals.

Gemma resumed her ministrations over Sam's unconscious body. "He's hypotensive. He's bleeding out somewhere." She pulled away with a frown and shone her flashlight over the length of Sam's body. Most people they rescued from the forest had suffered some kind of obvious external injury or were suffering from hypothermia. Now, Gemma had to factor in the likelihood of damage received in a plane crash. This kid was sure having a run of bad luck. "Damnit!" she cursed when her flashlight slid from her hands. "It's so damned dark out here. I can't see anything!"

Bill set aside the ambu-bag and grabbed the light from her. "Here, let me." He watched Gemma examine Sam's chest again. "There's bruising and lacerations but they haven't penetrated the muscle."

"Must be the abdomen," Gemma asserted and unbuttoned Sam's jeans, pressing gloved hands against his taut flesh. The area was firm to the touch, more rigid than it should be. "Abdominal bleed," she said. "We've got to move him right now! Get some fluids in him and we'll go."

Bill nodded, busying himself with a saline IV while Gemma gentled slid a cervical collar around Sam's neck. She helped her partner tape the IV in place and said, "Let's roll him." Bill lay the backboard beside Sam and they pair lifted him together and strapped him on. Throughout, Sam had not stirred but, as he was bodily moved, he let out a thin moan, barely audible above the noise of the medics talking. Bill leaned over so that he was in line with Sam's face. "Sam? Sam, can you hear me?" Sam's eyelids fluttered briefly in response to the voice above him then stilled. "Sam!" Bill repeated, insistently.

Sam was swimming in all-encompassing darkness, his senses dulled by the cocoon around him. He was aware of himself, of his own existence and his own memories but it was like his brain was the only part functioning. He tried to speak, to call out, but the message couldn't reach his mouth. He tried to move forwards, to run, but his limbs wouldn't respond. He knew he should be frightened but the panic he felt dimly in the back of his mind was muted. Sam tried to make sense of where he was but it was so dark…but it wasn't silent. He could hear garbled words, as if they were being spoken in a foreign language. They had been muffled at first but now they seemed to be getting closer and more distinct. There were two voices, one high and gentle, the other low and gruff. Their words were laced with insistence and they repeated themselves over and over. Some of it sounded familiar, as if he ought to understand. Was that his name? One word came unbidden to his lips, "Dea…?"

The word croaked out of his dry lips and Sam found himself surfacing from the darkness, the voices finding bodies in people rallying around him. He blinked wearily at the face hovering above him. It was a man's face and Sam tried to place him in his memories but there was nothing. The man was talking to him but Sam couldn't seem to follow quickly enough. "Wha…?" He fought to form a thought and find out what was happening to him.

"Sam, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand," Bill requested, pressing Sam's hand in his own. He watched as the young man's glazed eyes came to rest on him. His mouth moved, trying to communicate. "Sam, you're in safe hands but we need to get you to a hospital. Do you understand me? Squeeze my hand if you understand what I am saying to you."

Sam's addled brain slowly digested what he was hearing, piecing together the vocabulary until it made sense. Hospital? Then the memories flashed through his mind, recalling the difficulties of the past few days. Cautiously, he tried to move his hand against Bill's. He squeezed as hard as he could and relief washed over him when Bill smiled back at him.

"That's good," the medic replied. He turned to a woman beside him and nodded, "Let's move him."

Suddenly, panic welled up in Sam. Something wasn't right with this picture. Where was Dean? Where was Bobby? Had they been hurt as well? He knew Dean wouldn't leave him. Summoning up all the strength he could muster, he called his brother's name. "Dean! Where…?" Sam found himself breathless as the exertion sent stabbing pains across his chest. His hands lifted towards his chest but were stopped short by something. Another wave of anxiety washed over him and Sam tried to lift his head to see what was holding him still.

His head felt as heavy as lead and the world tilted sickeningly on its axis, forcing Sam to squeeze his eyes shut until the spinning slowed. Blearily, he recognised straps fastened across his chest and stomach and felt the stiffness of a backboard beneath him. The pain in his chest worsened with the effort of trying to sit up and Sam fell back with a gasp. He looked around him, trying to find the familiar face of his brother but there was nothing but darkness. "Dean? Where's Dean?" he asked in desperation when Bill checked his pupils.

"Is Dean your brother?" Bill asked. Sam nodded, feebly. "He's around here somewhere, don't you worry. We've got to get you back to the town. Everything's going to be okay." Sam tried to find comfort in the older man's reassuring tone but nothing could allay his fears that something had befallen Dean. He needed to see his brother with his own eyes. Dean wouldn't leave him. Sam struggled against the straps once more, calling upon every reserve of strength he possessed and pushing through the pain. Hot, white agony coursed through his limbs and Sam tried to manage it the only way he could. He hollered for Dean with every ounce of breath in his lungs.

In the woods, Bobby stopped short when he heard Sam's cry. "Sam's awake," he called to Dan across the undergrowth. The wildlife officer nodded, knowing that the injured young man would need a familiar face at his side right now. Together the pair made their way back to the beach, Bobby's concern divided equally between Sam's agitated state and the silent disappearance of Dean. Sam was being carried, clearly against his will, towards the small boat. When the medics saw the hunter, they paused and set Sam on the ground. His struggles were making it difficult to carry him so anything Bobby could do to quieten the patient would be much appreciated. Bobby dropped to his knees beside Sam and gripped the Winchester's hand between his own, feeling a weak squeeze in return.

Sam's eyes were glazed and filled with unconcealed pain. "Hey, Sam. How are you doing?"

Sam ignored the question. "Bobby!" he gasped, breathlessly. "Where's Dean?"

Bobby clenched his jaw, trying to think how to answer the question tactfully, without upsetting Sam further. In the end, despite his misgivings, he lied. "Things are crazy with all the medics. Dean's fine, he's fine. Just rest, Sam."

Bobby's face felt like it was on fire as Sam's dark eyes softened, putting all his faith and trust in the hunter's words. He nodded in relief, a flicker of a smile passing across his lips before his eyes slid closed. The brief adrenaline surge that had kept him conscious for the past few minutes waned and went out as Sam gave up the fight. Bobby remained where he was for a moment, Sam's limp hand still grasped in his own. He wished he hadn't lied, it hurt him more than he liked to admit, but he couldn't risk losing Sam as well by upsetting him. There was nothing the young Winchester could do except regain his strength.

Gemma and Bill lifted the backboard again and Bobby relinquished Sam's hand. The two medics carried Sam to the boat and Dan strode back alongside them, helping pack the equipment. "We're not leaving too!" Bobby exclaimed when he realised the wildlife officer was preparing to leave himself.

Dan drew Bobby closer to the river's edge. "Mr. Singer, I know that you are worried. Believe me, I've been in your position before but we have to come back for Dean. Someone needs to steer this boat back to the town and there are still hours until dawn. We didn't come equipped for a search and rescue like that. Sam needs a hospital and…"

"Dan!" Gemma called. "We need to move now. Sam's BP is falling again. Any lower and he'll bottom out." Bobby looked fearfully over at Sam's inert body, his face hardly visible beneath the ambu-bag Bill was squeezing over his nose and mouth. The truth hit home – Sam was not safe yet. He was hardly any better off than he had been hours before. He had spent enough time around hospitals and the injured to read between the lines. These medics weren't gods or saviours. Sam might not make it and Bobby knew Dean would want him to take care of his little brother above anything else in the world. "First light," Bobby said, firmly.

"As soon as we've got the supplies we need," Dan replied. "Don't worry. You said Dean didn't have any significant injuries. He's unlikely to get any more unless he does something supremely stupid out there. He'll be fine. In a matter of hours, he'll be home and dry with a hot meal inside him."

Bobby nodded, unconvinced. He wished he could have more faith in what the wildlife officer was telling him but, sadly, he knew better. There was more to be afraid of in those woods than any park ranger would know about. The hunter climbed into the boat and Dan pushed away from shore. Bobby prayed that Dean was safe, that he had just lost his way and needed to find his way back to the camp. He tried not to imagine the elder Winchester lying bloody and broken somewhere, dying alone. Trapped in his fears for both brothers, Bobby was left to his thoughts and listening to the sound of the water around them and the squeeze and puff of the ambu-bag helping to keep Sam alive.

* * *

Deep in the forest, Dean Winchester clutched at yet another tree trunk, sometimes his weaving vision let him down and his hand would reach out to nothing and stumbled. Still, the memory of Sam's ashen face spurred him on, refusing to allow him to lay down and succumb to unfeeling unconsciousness. Pain rolled through his body with each lurching step and blood dripped steadily from the claw marks on his forehead. Through the fuzzy haze, Dean tried to formulate a plan. Even _he_ knew that wandering aimlessly through the woods was a recipe for getting hopelessly lost. He needed to create a methodical way of getting through the homogenous terrain without covering the same ground over and over again. Dean reached out with a shaky hand for the nearest tree again. His hand, slick with blood, slipped on the smooth birch bark and he gasped as the sudden jolt tore at the slashes on his chest and back. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to hold the agony at bay. Dean breathed in raggedly, desperately trying to slow his breathing as spots of bright light danced beneath his eyelids.

Gingerly opening his eyes once more, Dean focused on his hands, ghost-lit in the wan moonlight. Finally, the pain and the dots faded and he was able to function again. The rushing in his ears slowed and the sounds of the forest tuned back in. Dean listened, wondering if his ears were deceiving him. There was more than just the rustle of branches now, there was something more continuous running beneath. It sounded familiar…the river. A smile broke across the hunter's face despite himself. He was saved. The prospect of seeing Sam again propelled him to stagger on and follow the sound of the river. He just needed to stick to the bank and head back in roughly the same direction he had come in. He would be at his little brother's side in no time.

Minutes slid by and Dean's hope sometimes waned when his ears betrayed him and sent him in the wrong direction, only to be turned around again a hundred yards on. Then, with a leaping heart, he saw the glint of water, unmistakable through the trees ahead. Dean pushed on through the painful slashes adorning his body and emerged victoriously on the river bank. There was no beach as there had been at their camp; instead the forest edge dropped sharply by a couple of feet, tree roots dangling in the rushing water below. In his desire to make it through, Dean almost slid right over the edge, his left leg sliding on the wet earth, sending him sharply to the ground. In spite of the enormous pain it triggered, the young hunter managed to grab a solid root and caught himself before he fell completely.

Dean couldn't contain the cry that burst from his lungs and he felt tears prickling behind his eyes. The tears in his flesh were deep, striking the muscle in places and every movement seemed to tear them further, like little hands prying his flesh apart, determined to flay him alive. Whimpering in agony, Dean clung to the root like a lifeline for several minutes until he finally summoned the strength to pull his lower body firmly onto solid ground. He sat, panting lightly, lacking the energy to do any more for now. The young hunter could feel blood trickling a warm path down his chest and back and he idly wiped the drips from his forehead that threatened to obstruct his vision.

Recognising that, even in his earnestness to find Sam, he was in no shape to move anywhere for the moment, Dean decided to try and clean himself up a bit. He had been in enough scrapes to know when the cuts needed a bandage or two. So far, he had not dared to examine his wounds more closely, afraid of wasting precious time but more afraid of seeing how bad they were. Right now though, they were in danger of hindering his progress so Dean was prepared to look after himself a little bit.

Judging the drop to the water's edge, Dean shifted himself towards the bank and lowered himself into the ankle deep water. The current was strong but he wedged himself between two larger roots and began to catalogue his injuries. He leant down and cupped his hands full of water then gently bathed the deep cuts on his forehead and cheek. The cold water stung for a second then gave quick relief. His cheek seemed to have stopped bleeding but Dean couldn't stem the flow of blood from his forehead and eventually gave up. He pressed an old, crumpled tissue from his pocket over the gash, allowing the blood to hold it in place. Then, he turned his attention intrepidly to his damaged torso.

Carefully, wincing at the aggravation it caused, Dean pulled his shirt off one arm at a time. His white T-shirt was stained crimson and it was stuck like glue to his body. For a moment he wondered if it was better just to leave the T-shirt in place and allow it to absorb the blood like a self-contained bandage. He quickly realised, however, that the light fabric was already soaked through and he knew he needed to make something more substantial. It felt like ripping scabs from barely healed wounds as he pulled the shirt away from his skin. Dean's eyes smarted with the pain and he tried to erect the famous Winchester wall between him and the sensations coursing through his body. Sadly, his brain and body would not obey and he was all too aware of each tug and hurt that ensued.

Even in the feeble moonlight, he could see that the depth of damage to his chest was great. Where the skin had parted, the lacerations were deep and Dean could see exposed muscle beneath. There were three wounds in all, running diagonally at intervals across his chest from sternum to the bottom of his rib cage. The flesh around each one was already growing puffy and discoloured. Dean was relieved that his intestines weren't hanging out but he also knew that infection would set in soon if he didn't do something about the cuts. What I would give for a needle and thread, he thought. He couldn't twist far enough to see his back but he could feel the slashes pulling with each movement and Dean could tell that there were three and his imagination could fill in the rest.

After the initial shock and his own desperation to get back to Sam, Dean had managed to keep himself moving forwards like he was invincible but things were slowing down around him now. He felt his strength starting to drain away and he felt somehow detached from the world around him. It was a sure sign of blood loss and the young hunter was starting to feel dizzy. Sinking to his knees in the water, heedless of the wetness seeping through his jeans, Dean tried to wash out the slashes on his chest with the cold water. He hissed when the freezing liquid made contact with his heated flesh but persevered. At last, he had done the best he could without causing further damage. He didn't regret giving his outer jacket to Sam but it had left him with little to use in the way of bandages for himself. It took him several minutes just to make the first tear in his T-shirt as he tried to make binding strips. He cursed under his breath when his hands trembled, then finally a loud rip heralded the end of one of his favourite tees.

The pieces were hardly regular enough to pass for proper bandages. One piece was more like a large rectangle of fabric while another tapered at the end until it wouldn't even cover a paper cut. Dean swore at his own ineptitude but made the best of what he had and wound the already bloodied material around his torso. He tried to make sure the fabric covered the wounds on his back but could only guess at how well he had managed.

Dean sat back on his heels, feeling the current tug at the hem of his jeans. He felt drained and his eyes wandered lazily over the bank to his left, the direction he knew he had to go. He desperately wanted to be at his brother's side but it was almost impossible to imagine himself getting up and moving right now. He needed a moment to rest, just a moment. Dean swayed perilously and caught himself as his head drooped towards the water. "Damn," he muttered and, plunging his hands to the river bed, he levered himself into a standing position.

His legs were wobbly and the young Winchester turned slowly to face the bank. It seemed higher than before but, wherever he looked, the bank appeared to be the same height. He would simply have to pull himself back up. Drawing in a deep breath, Dean yanked on a sturdy root to check its strength and winced as he reached up it as far as he could without too much pain. He gripped another root with his other hand and pressed his right foot against the bank wall. Mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of fire it would ignite in his back and chest, Dean counted to three and pulled with all his might.

The young hunter had woefully overestimated his strength after the creature's attack and his mouth had barely opened into an expletive before Dean crashed backwards into the water. He felt the rough impact of stones beneath his back and the rush of freezing water all around him but as his skull met rock, his consciousness faded in one sickening blow.

END OF PART 8

OMG, another cliffie! I didn't mean to, I promise! I just…I just…well, I just had to! Sorry to lay it on so thick but it's all in a good cause, I think.


	9. Damage Control

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Just to say that I posted Part 8 when the alert system was down, so if the beginning of this looks like I've skipped something, then chances are you haven't read the part I posted last week! Also, I actually did quite a bit of research on the medical side but decided not to include it all in the end. Still, I'm pretty sure I've got a ton of stuff wrong so I apologise to any experts out there!

PART 9 : DAMAGE CONTROL

Sam was completely colourless by the time Bobby and the rescue team made it to the nearest hospital. He was so close to the edge that even the two paramedics questioned his survival. They didn't say as much but Bobby could read their expressions like an open book. Bill continued with the ambu-bag supplying Sam with oxygen all the way back to town and Gemma had been forced to insert another IV in his other arm just to try and keep his blood pressure up. The blood had been slowly seeping out into Sam's abdomen and, within moments of arrival in the ER, his heart finally gave out.

The ER doctors were prepared for their arrival and quickly wheeled Sam into a trauma room, one already intent on compressions while a nurse continued with the oxygen supply. Bobby blindly tried to follow, feeling the weight of responsibility for John's kids more keenly than ever. The old hunter looked at the frantic scene unfolding beyond the glass and caught the eye of a sturdy looking nurse. She quickly moved to the door and barked, "Are you with this patient?"

"His name's Sam," Bobby blurted out, indignantly.

"Sir, can you tell me if Sam has any allergies?"

Bobby blinked blankly for a second then wracked his brains for the answer. He recalled accompanying John to the emergency room once when Sam had been on the wrong end of a bowie knife. For the life of him he couldn't recall if John had mentioned allergies or not. He looked at the nurse in bewilderment, desperate to be of help but terrified of saying the wrong thing and endangering Sam further. "I, uh, I don't know."

The nurse looked impatient but she kept her voice calm and even. "What about his medical history? Anything we should know?"

The hunter paused. Now that was a question he did indeed know the answer to but he couldn't exactly tell the bald truth of it. A catalogue of prior injuries ran through his head and those were only the ones Bobby knew about. Once again, he found himself gaping like a fish until the nurse shook her head in despair. "Can I ask what your relation is to Sam?" she asked, sceptically considering the dishevelled figure before her.

Bobby ignored the disparaging tone and quickly replied, "I'm his uncle but I haven't seen Sam in a while," he lied.

"Okay, well maybe you can answer this one for me, Mr….?"

"Singer. Mr. Singer," Bobby said.

"Mr. Singer, can you tell me what Sam ate last, before you brought him in?"

"Uh, some M&Ms, maybe a cracker, water…not much." It seemed like a lifetime ago that the Winchester boys had been sitting with him around a campfire where the plane had gone down and that had been their last meal.

The nurse jerked her head in the direction of the seating area. "Take a seat, Mr. Singer. We'll keep you informed of Sam's condition." She turned on her heel and marched back through the swing doors. Bobby knew the doctors needed to work, that he needed to be out of the way, but he found himself rooted to the ground. He looked through the glass at where Sam lay, his body half obscured by people. The mask on his face had been replaced with a tube running down his throat and it had been taped in place across the lower half of the young hunter's face. The IVs set up by the two paramedics were now accompanied by tubes running much needed blood into Sam's weakened body. A nurse had already begun cutting his blood stained clothes off, deftly slicing up through his jeans and peeling the tattered remains of Sam's shirt from his upper body. Sticky patches of white electrodes were placed on his chest and hooked to wires leading to what Bobby could see was a cardiac monitor. He was no expert but the old hunter knew the squiggly lines should have been closer together and peak higher.

The hunter listened to the alien vocabulary being bandied around, trying to make sense of Sam's situation. The doctor was probing Sam's abdomen. "We've got pelvic instability and there's crepitation in his lower thoracic cage…peritonitis. We've got an intra-abdominal haemorrhage. Call the OR, get Harlan down here now." He glanced up at the bevy of nurses scurrying around the room. "I need a CBC, ABG, coag panel, Chem-7. Blood type and match for four units. I want a urinalysis, drug screen and blood ethanol. Stat!"

"Do you want a CT?" someone asked.

"Yep, plus C-spine and chest. He's going to need a DPL if we're going to find the source of this bleeding. Can someone do a blood glucose?" the doctor asked. Within seconds, Bobby could see a nurse lifting Sam's left hand and doing something with a small stick. The doctor added, "We need to get his temp up. Warm those fluids and get a heating blanket ready. He's gonna need a transfusion."

Suddenly, the heart monitor beeped faster and the squiggly lines closed in on one another. Instead of looking pleased, the doctors and nurses moved faster. "Tachycardia!" someone shouted. Defibrillators were brought into view and Bobby unconsciously touched a hand to the door as if planning on going in. Instead, he found himself halted by a firm hand on his chest. Looking to the source of the hand, he saw Dan's steady face. "Let them work, Mr. Singer. They know what they're doing." Bobby half expected the wildlife officer to declare Sam in the hands of the best doctors in the country. The prospect almost made the hunter laugh, imagining the greatest doctors and surgeons flocking to a hospital on the edge of nowhere in a community of little more than ten thousand people.

Dan pulled him by the shoulder again. "Mr. Singer, Bobby, come and sit down. You can't do anything else for Sam now but resting will make you more use to me when we go looking for Dean." Bobby nodded, dazed but knowing the officer spoke the truth. It took more energy than he could muster to move away from the door and he found himself just following Dan's gentle prodding.

Bobby sank into the orange plastic bucket chair, watching the ER bustle around him. He pulled off his trusty baseball cap and set it down on the empty seat beside him, running stubby fingers through his short cropped hair. He had done his first duty; Sam had been delivered safely into the hands of qualified specialists. Still, it was not enough. Bobby was wracked with guilt, his brain spinning countless times through the choices he had made, trying to find a way he could have saved one Winchester without failing the other. No matter how hard he thought, the hunter knew he would have been forced to leave one of them, but his mind refused to let the scenarios go. He wished to God he could tear them out and think forwards, to what the surgeons would do for Sam, to how he would rescue Dean from wherever the hell he was.

"Coffee," Dan announced, passing the hunter a paper cup. The cardboard was flimsy, low-grade, and the boiling liquid quickly started burning Bobby's fingers. He took a strange comfort in the pain it induced. He wanted to feel something, to feel even a fragment of what Sam and Dean were experiencing. He deserved it. He should have done more, protected them somehow. Sam was fighting for his life and only the Fates knew if he would pull through. The one person he wanted at his side, the one he most needed, was lost in the unforgiving maze of forest outside. Bobby felt another wave of guilt wash over him. He wasn't doing anything – not helping Sam, not looking for Dean. He was useless…he had failed, failed himself and the man he had called his friend for so many years. What would John Winchester say to him now? Unchecked tears squeezed from his eyes and for a moment Bobby let them fall.

Pulling his baseball cap back on, Bobby swiped at the tears, embarrassed to think that the wildlife officer might catch a glimpse of his sentimentality. He sat back and listened through cotton wool ears to Dan's plans for the next day. He tried to keep focused but the knowledge that Sam was dying just a room away made it impossible to see or think clearly.

Finally, he looked up to see a doctor heading straight for him. Bobby stood up, almost dropping the hot coffee all over himself. "Mr. Singer?" Bobby nodded. "Please, take a seat." The two men sat, the hunter trying to read the doctor's face for good or bad news. "Sam has a ruptured spleen and a fracture in his pelvis. The spleen contains a large amount of blood vessels, making it very difficult to stop any bleeding."

Bobby tried to follow the man's words, make sense of what he was saying. "But you managed it, right?"

"No. He's being prepped for the OR now. Mr. Singer, a surgeon will perform an emergency procedure to remove Sam's spleen. Now, we've stabilised his pelvis with a temporary external device until he gets up to the OR." The doctor paused to allow the information to digest. Bobby looked shell-shocked but he continued nonetheless. "An X-ray showed that he has four fractured ribs, three are linear breaks but one has torn into his spleen. As for the lacerations to his chest, most were superficial but a couple were deep and will require suturing and we haven't ruled out the need for grafts yet. Infection had already set in but we're confident it can be turned around with the correct antibiotic programme."

Bobby nodded again. "So he's in surgery?" His eyes moved automatically over the doctor's shoulder to the trauma room.

"As soon as he's prepped, yes." The doctor motioned to the trauma room just as the doors swung open and Sam was wheeled out, a hospital gown pulled up around his chest and the endotracheal tube attached to an ambu-bag as they moved him. Sam looked like death with tubes trailing from his arms and equipment squeezed in around his limp limbs on the gurney. There was hardly any colour in his lips at all and his dark hair looked almost black against his pale skin. A heated blanket was pulled up over him as he was wheeled into the elevator and the doors closed. The doctor turned back to the hunter. "Mr. Singer, Sam is fighting very hard. He's gone through a lot. His temperature and blood pressure are still dangerously low. You should know that while a splenectomy is a common procedure, usually patients' stats are considerably better than Sam's."

"You saying he could die?" Bobby blurted out, accusingly.

The doctor seemed unfazed by the hunter's tone and kept his voice even. "I am saying you should be aware that, in Sam's case, this surgery is vital for his survival but that his body is weak. He is fighting his hardest but you should prepare yourself for either outcome. I'm sorry I can't give you better news."

Bobby managed a whispered 'thank you' before the doctor made his excuses and disappeared. The waiting game started again but this time he had new information. Sam's condition was critical. He knew that if Dean could speak to him now, he would tell Bobby to stay and look after his little brother. The older hunter bleakly realised that he couldn't join the search and rescue party until he was sure of the younger Winchester's stability. If Sam died on the table and Bobby wasn't there…. He stopped himself before the thought could realise itself more clearly in his head. In that moment, he knew he couldn't deal with all this alone. Reaching for his phone, Bobby searched for the number of the Roadhouse. Three rings and a familiar voice was on the other end of the line. "Ellen? Hey, it's Bobby."

* * *

The forest swayed with the buffeting wind, the trees dancing as if alive in celebration. The branches leaned down towards the fast moving river below and the dark shape cradled in its currents. But the river would not relinquish its precious burden. One mile became two as the force of the currents dragged Dean Winchester deeper into the wilderness and further from Sam, from civilisation, from the people who could help him. 

His body was tossed and tumbled over the rapids, his lifeless limbs animated by the watery swells. The water had long since washed the blood from Dean's wounds but it had also leeched the colour from his skin. Pale, cold, injured and soaked to the skin, the river broadened, shallowed and gave up its cargo to the shore.

* * *

Bobby had taken to pacing the damp sidewalk outside the hospital, unable to keep himself still for a moment longer. The first cup of coffee had kept him functioning but the fourth had only brought on the shakes and jitters. Sam's surgery was taking a long time and Dan had gone back to the wildlife service station to rally his search and rescue team. Bobby wished he could be doing the same, in fact, he wished he could be doing anything other than waiting. He was hunter, an action man, and this was the worst kind of torture. Bobby didn't have many people in the world who he cared for or who cared for him; he had rarely had to worry about how the consequences of his actions might affect anyone else. He didn't need to worry about loved ones standing at his bedside, praying that he lived through his latest injuries. The old hunter had only ever had to worry about number one and getting home safely. 

Now these emotions were building up behind the floodgates and he neither understood them nor knew how to keep them at bay. He had never considered how his friendship with the Winchesters had grown, from his first meeting with John, his green eyes haunted and desperate. Bobby had been unable to resist helping the man. Then came the boys, at first just distractions in the background while the two men planned a job, then an occasional babysitting stint as a favour to John. One year had moved into another and those boys had grown into fully formed beings. They had likes and dislikes beyond their choice of cereal; they started to question the strange world they had been raised in, or rather Sam did. Sam had been instantly likeable, the boundless energy of youth spreading through everyone around him. Dean had been harder to understand; he was quiet and obedient and Bobby occasionally felt unsettled at how he jumped to attention like a brainwashed soldier. Where Sam was open and guileless, seeing the world through wide opened eyes, Dean was silent, inscrutable, fragmented somehow.

But John's disappearance and subsequent death had changed everything, including the way Bobby saw the two Winchester boys. Dean was no longer in his father's shadow and he came to the fore as a capable leader. Every fact John had ever imparted was put to use, his journal practically learned by heart. Dean was methodical and calm, rarely putting a foot wrong where malevolent spirits were concerned. Dean was indeed his father's son but there was something darker, emptier behind the young man's eyes. The darkness only went away when Sam was around. So, no matter how hard he was wrenched between the two brothers, Bobby knew Dean would never forgive him if anything happened to Sam.

Bobby turned on his heels and went back to sit in the waiting room. He didn't want the surgeon to look for him with news and find him missing. The antiseptic smell of the hospital made him feel nauseous after so many hours but the hunter tried to tune it out, as he did the incessant noises of voices, phones and gurney wheels. Resting his head back against the wall, Bobby closed his eyes for a moment. The next thing he knew, a heavy hand was resting on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open. A surgeon was standing over him, mask in hand and Bobby tried not to look at the spots of blood he could see on the light fabric. "Mr. Singer? Sam's uncle?" the man asked.

"Yes," Bobby said quickly. It had been easier to make himself into a family relative. After all, no one would understand how close he was to being just that anyway. "How's Sam doing?" His eyes wandered to the clock past the surgeon's head and he was mortified to realise he had been asleep for a couple of hours at least.

"Your nephew is stable. We successfully removed his spleen but exploration of the abdomen revealed further injuries. Sam had an extraperitoneal bladder rupture caused by bony fragments from his osseous pelvis. We have repaired the damage and put in a foley catheter. In most cases, the organ should heal on its own, but we need to give it at least a week before we send him for a cystogram."

"So he's going to be okay?" Bobby asked with bated breath, terrified that he was misunderstanding the severity of what the surgeon was telling him.

The surgeon paused. "We have repaired the damage to his abdomen but Sam has undergone significant trauma. The blood loss was extensive and there is still a high risk of infection. We are going to need to keep him in traction for a while, just until his pelvis has had a chance to heal. Now, the good news is that we haven't needed to apply skeletal traction so that minimises any further complications with infected pins."

"Can I see him?" Bobby blurted out, needing to understand what the man was saying with his own eyes.

"He is still in recovery and we need to set up the traction. As I said, his condition is stable for now. I will send someone to get you as soon as Sam is in his room." The surgeon smiled curtly and moved away from Bobby before he could get insistent about seeing the patient. Bobby couldn't help but hear the words 'for now' echoing around his skull.

* * *

Ridley Miller hoisted his rifle higher on his shoulder as he picked his way through the familiar undergrowth. It amused him a little that experienced orienteering groups who spent a good deal of time mapping these areas still got themselves lost. Yet, here he was, a seventy year old man with no experience whatsoever, finding his way through the wilderness as if it were his own backyard. Still, he wouldn't have it any other way. He liked being alone and unreachable and the lost hikers had proven useful to him as well. Today though, there were no lost hikers. He would know if there were. It was something else…someone else. Most people would call him crazy and have him locked up but Miller could sense an agitation in the air that drew him out of his house in search of its source. 

He had homed in on the river's edge and narrowed his eyes at a dark pile of branches tangled together in the shallows, creating a small dam. Usually he would dismiss such a thing; his eyes had played many tricks on him since he had moved to the house in the woods. As he neared the pile, Miller realised his curiosity was well founded. Jammed against the far side of the small dam was a body, wedged face down in the water, limbs floating gently in the water that rushed around them. The old man moved as quickly as he could across the sludgy ground and lowered himself onto the small patch of shingle at the edge of the water. His boots sank calf deep into the soft mud of the river bed and he struggled to move with any degree of speed. Finally, he was close enough to reach out and grab the soaked edge of the person's shirt.

Fighting back the morbid intrigue he felt at hauling a dead body from the river, Miller didn't inspect his charge but turned himself and dragged the victim to the bank, puffing his breath out through his teeth with the exertion. Once safe and sound on solid ground, he gripped the body by the shirt and turned it over. It was a young man, probably no more than mid twenties, his hair close cropped. Deep cuts stood out across his forehead and cheek, the skin puckered and swollen but the blood had long since stopped flowing.

Lowering himself into a crouch over the boy's body, Miller tentatively ran a finger to his neck, already convinced the victim was dead. To his surprise, a pulse registered beneath his papery fingers. It was neither strong nor even but his heart surged at the notion that the young man was still alive. He bent closer and pressed his ear to the man's chest. His heart was still beating but it was clear that he was not breathing. Miller reckoned the fates must have been smiling on this poor kid to have sent help in time. It would have taken no more than a few more minutes before he would well and truly have been for the worms.

He carefully stretched the young man flat on the ground and tilted his head back then checked for a pulse again, not trusting his first assessment. To his horror, where seconds before a beat had registered, now there was nothing. The kid was running out of time. Miller wasted no time and began CPR on his victim's chest, belatedly noticing how his hands came away bloody. He didn't have time to assess what damage there was beneath the soaked shirt. Resuscitation was the option available to him out here in the open and he needed the peace of mind of knowing he had tried his best. After five compressions, Miller moved to the man's head, pinched his nose and breathed firmly into his mouth. He listened again for breath sounds and was not surprised when there were none. He repeated the procedure, massaging the young man's ailing heart as much as he could. His hands trembled; it had been so long since he had needed to resuscitate somebody and, even then, there had been plenty of equally qualified people on standby.

Four more times the old man massaged Dean's heart and four more times he breathed vital life into the young man's lungs. Finally, his efforts were rewarded. River water burst from his mouth as Miller set about a new set of compressions. The pressure on Dean's chest at the same time as he took a breath almost winded him. Eyes squeezed shut against the burning sensation in his lungs, he coughed and spluttered. The old man turned Dean gently on his side and rubbed his back soothingly. The coughing continued even after the young man had expelled the last of the water. Finally, he managed to suck in gasping breaths that subsided into wheezes. For a second, hazel eyes cracked open as Dean's self awareness kicked in. He looked around him, finally latching onto the face quivering at the edge of his vision. Something told him to stay awake but his body was too weak and he could not hold his eyes open any longer. His breath still issuing in rasping rattles, Dean's eyes slid closed and he succumbed once more to the darkness.

Miller looked down at the unconscious form at his feet, his face still registering a mixture of relief and alarm. He could feel himself shaking with adrenaline as he raised himself to his feet. Now the biggest hurdle had been surmounted, that of keeping the young man alive, Miller had to figure out how to get his charge back to safety. He was not foolhardy enough to believe himself capable of carrying Dean the distance but he recalled the sledge stowed beside the wood stack out the back of his house. It was unlikely in the extreme that anyone would pass this way in the time it would take for him to get the sledge and return. The old man checked the wet man over once more, reassuring himself that he was indeed alive. The pulse was thready beneath his fingers and the young man's lips and fingertips were tinged with blue. He was starting to shiver all over, his teeth chattering within his clenched jaw. Miller peeled off his own jacket and draped it over Dean's torso then set off as quickly as he could for his home.

* * *

Bobby was ushered down the long corridor by a nurse, his shoes squeaking on the freshly polished linoleum floor. This was the moment he had been waiting for but, instead of relief, his heart was filled with dread at what he might find. Bedside manners had never been his thing and he only hoped that he could fill whatever role Sam needed him to over the coming days. The nurse seemed to be walking too fast, her steps covering the distance too quickly for the hunter to prepare himself properly. Finally, she stopped and paused, her hand resting on the curtain that separated Bobby from Sam. He could already hear whooshes and beeps issuing from behind it and that worried him even more. The nurse pulled a face that the hunter could see was intended to be kind but didn't quite make it to her eyes. "Now, he's doing better than he looks. A lot of folks find it hard to see a loved one straight after surgery." 

"It's okay, I know…" Bobby tailed off, not trusting his voice to continue and not wanting to reveal his genuine inexperience in such situations.

"Fine. I'll leave you with Sam and his doctor should be with you in a minute." The nurse drew back the curtain and left Bobby to survey the ruins.

The sight of Sam lying prone, so lifeless and helpless, took Bobby's breath away. He had been hooked up to a ventilator, not trusted to even breathe continuously on his own. The breathing apparatus had been taped securely around the back of his jaw and Bobby tracked the plastic tube's path from Sam's mouth to the bank of monitors at his bedside. The cuts on his face had been cleaned and treated but only a few had been covered with steri-strips. Three bags of liquid were connected to Sam's arms via thin plastic tubing, one Bobby recognised instantly as blood and then two clear ones while another tube emerged from the foot of the bed. The hunter scrubbed one hand over his beard, trying to take in everything that he was seeing. He had expected bandages and gauze but he hadn't expected to still be able to see the telltale signs of the trauma the young Winchester had undergone.

Where there would normally have been a gown covering his chest, Sam's was bare, although hardly a patch of flesh was visible across his torso. Gauze was firmly taped across the places where the skin had been cut up but blood was already oozing through the absorbent fabric. Tight bandages were wound around the lower part of his chest, indicating where his ribs had taken a beating. Where the smallest patches of skin showed, circular electrodes were wired up to a cardiac monitor beeping steadily beside Sam's head. Bobby's gaze travelled the length of Sam's beaten body, coming to rest at the boy's hands. The hunter felt even worse knowing that below the starched sheets covering Sam's waist, there was damage to his pelvis that had nearly been the death of him. The doctor had mentioned something about traction and Bobby attributed the bulky lumps around Sam's hips to that. At the foot of the bed, there was some kind of elaborate looking pulley system with weights.

Bobby had never felt so far away from Sam as he did standing right beside him now. The hunter didn't know how to behave; he daren't touch the young man's hand because he didn't want to make what he was seeing become real with that connection. He knew he could hold it together like this, keeping his distance. The doctor would be here any minute and he couldn't break down in front of him.

As if on cue, the curtain was gently pulled back and a middle-aged man in a white coat stepped through. He smiled instantly and the warmth it conveyed gave Bobby some reassurance. The doctor extended a long-fingered hand. "Mr. Singer, I'm Dr. Clancy. I'm Sam's doctor and I'll be treating him over the coming weeks."

"Weeks?" Bobby echoed, never having spent more than a couple of hours at a time in a hospital before this day.

The doctor smiled again. "It's perfectly normal after any kind of pelvic injury. The bones need time to heal and stabilise in their correct alignment." His gaze drifted over Bobby's shell-shocked face and his voice softened even more. "Let me explain what we've got here to help Sam." Dr. Clancy turned to the young hunter's bedside and began an inventory. "As you know, along with the pelvic fracture, the damage to his spleen necessitated its removal and there was a small nick in his bladder which we have successfully repaired. The foley catheter keeps us informed of any further blood loss from the abdomen but we are confident that we have dealt with it all. The fracture was not too serious, what we call a Kane type II, which means there was only a single break in the pelvic ring. Due to the fact that Sam had to be moved quite significantly between the time of the injury and its treatment, we have decided to apply some temporary skin traction. The weight system," Clancy pointed to the pulleys at the foot of Sam's bed, "is attached to a belt around Sam's waist and those five pound weights will help to stabilise his pelvis. Fortunately, only one of his ribs was out of alignment so they have also been bound for stability. The chest wounds were fortunately not deep enough to require grafts but there are both internal and external stitches which will likely cause him the most pain when he wakes up…."

Bobby cleared his throat as he tried to digest what he was being told, his eyes wandering over Sam's unconscious body. "And when will that be?" he tried to ask as casually as he could even though his voice was close to breaking.

"Although Sam is stable, he needs to heal and his body needs plenty of rest. At the moment, we are replenishing the lost blood and fluids. His heart is strong but his lungs are weak, most likely a result of the damp conditions and the bruising on his chest. The ventilator will allow Sam's lungs time to recover but it can be uncomfortable for a conscious patient. Given the trauma his body has undergone, we have sedated him, probably for twenty-four hours, then we'll let him wake up on his own." Dr. Clancy offered Bobby yet another reassuring smile. "Do you have any further questions?"

Bobby paused, more accustomed to busy surgeons and nurses who gave him the scantest of information and then hurried away. "When he's off the sedation, how quickly d'ya think he'll wake up?"

"How long is a piece of string, Mr. Singer?! Sam will wake up when he's ready but, I'll be honest with you, he is on strong analgesics to control the pain and maintain sedation plus a heavy course of antibiotics to combat the infection that had set in his chest. It might be a few days or maybe a few hours. One thing's for sure, he's a tough kid. He's fighting the infections hard."

Bobby smiled, recognising a Winchester trait even in unconsciousness. "Damn straight," he confirmed, pride edging his voice.

"Well, if there's nothing further I can do for you, Mr. Singer, I've got rounds. A nurse will be in every hour to check on Sam but there's a call button at the head of the bed in case of emergency." Clancy pressed a hand to Bobby's shoulder and disappeared through the gap in the curtain.

* * *

Ridley Miller's arms were shaking in their sockets by the time he brought the sledge to rest outside his ramshackle home hidden in the depths of the woods. The strain of hauling a dead weight of one hundred and seventy pounds of muscle had taken its toll on his aging body. Still, despite the shakes it elicited in his overwrought frame, Miller's excitement was palpable. Adrenaline coursed through him like an acid trip and he felt light-headed with the thrill of the action. He had saved a life today, something he used to do a lot. Now it felt like all he did was take them. This kid represented a turn in the road of his dismal life. Half-dead and injured, he might not know it, but this kid was going to be Ridley Miller's salvation. 

END OF PART 9

Please, please review! Just hit that little button and give a gal the fuzzies! Remember, it'll come back to you tenfold with Dean & Sam reunited, health setbacks, the works!


	10. Danger & Despair

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Thank you to everyone who has sent me such lovely reviews & to those people who have pointed out any errors. The warm fuzzies have been duly processed and hopefully you will like what they have produced! Thanks as well to Tamara, supernaturalfan, Hayles, Shannon & OEGirl who I couldn't contact but whose reviews I appreciate greatly Special thanks to PADavis for the little flurry of encouragement and praise that pushed me to get this chapter done & made me blush along the way!

I know this chapter will seem woeful after so long a wait but the next one is already underway & hopefully there's a bit of bedside manner here for some people's pleasure! Please, please review!!

PART 10 : DANGER & DESPAIR

Dean was lost in deep unconsciousness. Oblivious to the vulnerable state his body was in, how precariously it hung onto life, he was victim to whoever or whatever found him like a rag doll dropped in a puddle. Somewhere deep within himself, the young hunter still clung to a face that haunted him even in unconsciousness, an image of brown eyes brimming with emotion and hurt. Even in his cocoon of numbness, the need to see those eyes laughing once more kept Dean grounded. When the edges of his mind seemed to be melting into nothingness, those eyes held him firm and told him to fight oblivion. There was work still to be done.

* * *

The routine of sensory experiences were growing familiar to Bobby now, the ache in his back from the hard chair, the hiss and click of the ventilator at the bedside, the steady beep of the heart monitor reassuring him that Sam was still holding on. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the old hunter drew himself up straight in his chair and leaned forward to check on the broken young man in the bed. Sam looked much as he had the day before and the day before that – ghostly, seeming to wax and wane like the moon, one moment on the verge of disappearing into the folds of the sheets he lay beneath and next looking stronger, colour seeming to flush his cheeks. Bobby was starting to believe his little observations were all in his head because the machines never altered their pattern, always sure and reliable. The machines told the truth, that Sam was not getting worse, but was he getting any better either? 

"Hey, Sam," he said gruffly, trying feebly to make a small degree of contact with the unresponsive patient. Bobby searched his mind for something to say. He felt as if he had exhausted every rousing story he could remember, even ignoring the strange looks he received from each nurse that entered in the midst of his hunt recounts. Bobby had started with the ones that included John, remembering how any mention of their father had always piqued the boys' interest. John had never been exactly forthcoming with the family stories himself and, from the boys' reactions, Bobby figured he had never filled either of them in on what he got up to in their absence. Considering it now, the old hunter was reminded of how absent John had been and how much responsibility Dean had shouldered. Once again, Bobby felt the stabbing sensation that penetrated into his core, the guilt that Dean was still out there somewhere.

Dan, the wildlife officer, had kept Bobby fully informed of the rescue party's actions and the areas they were focusing on. It had been three days and nothing. To make matters worse, the dreary rain had given way to sleet and finally snow. Through the window, the hunter could see the latest blanket layer finding a resting place even on the pointed tips of the metal fences. He shuddered to imagine that Dean might be dying out there in the unforgiving cold.

Bobby had remained at Sam's side, the doctors reiterating how hard the kid was fighting, how important it was that he hear the voices of his loved ones. That only made it worse. Bobby knew he was but a poor substitute for Sam's true loved ones. They had been brutally taken from him one by one, picked off by a soulless demon – Mary, Jess, John…. Each time, the light Dean had tried so hard to preserve in his little brother's core had been extinguished little by little. How could Bobby even begin to plug the gap and carry on Dean's work? He couldn't protect Sam from the brutal truth, that he might have lost his one anchor left in the world.

"That your idea of a bedside manner, Bobby Singer?" came a blunt, smoky voice from behind the hunter.

Bobby swiveled in his chair, almost falling off it in his surprise. "Ellen? Thank God!" It wasn't in his nature to get all touchy feely with people but the trauma of the last few days had stolen away the last of his emotional restraint. He drew the sturdy woman into his arms, squeezing her close to his chest. "I'm so glad you're here," he murmured into her shoulder, his arms remaining vice-like around her.

Ellen melted into his grip, recognising how close Bobby was to falling apart. She could feel the minute trembling beneath the strength of his hold and hear the slight hitch in his breath that told her he was trying his hardest to hold back the torrent of emotion that threatened to break through the barriers. "You've done good, Bobby." She rubbed one hand across his back as she would a child before finally pulling away. "Any word on Dean?"

Bobby shook his head, wearily. "The search and rescue team have been combing the area for days, widening the area. They've been on the water, in the woods, even got a helicopter team out there. He's just…gone." It was the first time Bobby had admitted the fact out loud and he could feel tears prickling behind his eyes.

"But they don't know what we know, right?" Ellen cajoled. "You know what to look for. You'll find him, don't worry."

"But will I be in time?" Bobby asked, bleakly.

"Dean's alive. I can feel it," Ellen asserted sternly, holding the hunter's gaze in her own unwavering one. "Now what about young Sam over here?" she asked, moving to the young man's bedside and taking in the assortment of wires, tubes and bandages. If she was shocked, she didn't show it and Bobby was grateful for that. He was on the verge of crumbling to ruins and, more than anything, he needed someone to be strong for him as well.

She leaned over Sam, gently stroking aside his dark hair and planting a light kiss on his forehead. It was no wonder Bobby was a wreck if this was how Sam looked _after_ he had been cleaned up and treated. Ellen dreaded to think how bad he must have looked when he was brought in. Regardless of the unhealed rift between her and John, she couldn't withhold the mounting affection she had for Sam and Dean. They talked the talk and walked the walk, taking their cues from their emotionally stunted father, but she could see past that to the pure goodness beneath.

Ellen lifted Sam's hand, mindful of the IV line taped to the back of it, and settled it in her own. It was cool against the warmth of her own skin and minor abrasions adorned the translucent flesh. She watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the gauze and bandages, trying not to consider how mangled his body must be beneath them.

"The doctors won't commit to how stable he is. The blood loss was significant and infection had set in. He's been running a fever. They've repaired the damage, removed his spleen but we've just got to wait."

"That's good," Ellen said.

"I can't stand it!" Bobby blurted out in frustration. "All this damned waiting! I can't do it! Not when Dean's out there somewhere…!" He stalked from one side of the room to the other, his boots echoing hollowly on the smooth floor. "You know, I keep thinking about John. He never said it but I always understood that he expected me to look out for Sam and Dean if anything happened to him. You know, he was always so damned reckless, like they didn't matter enough for him to try and survive. I didn't understand that, I couldn't see what he saw. But now I've been sitting here for three days, desperate to see Sam open his eyes, but terrified that if he did I wouldn't be able to lie to him…" Bobby paused, heaving a breath into his starved lungs. Ellen waited patiently for him to continue. His voice softened as he went on, "I see now. Those boys _did_ mean the world to John but, no matter what he did, he would always be letting them down, just as I am doing now. He thought he could keep them from being hurt by shutting himself off but in the end it was like poison in his veins. I can't let them down, Ellen! I've got to find Dean and…"

"And what?" Ellen asked, softly. "And heal Sam? Play God? Because you're not. Bobby, all this emotion you're feeling is natural…but it is misdirected. You see these Winchester boys as children still, victims of a horrible fate they were thrown into. But they've grown up. They've seen more than anyone can protect them from and they've dealt with it. They've been hunting solo for nearly two years now, fighting the darkness, staring Death in the face. You're not their saviour, Bobby. You can't be. You're human and you've done everything that is humanly possible to look out for them." Her eyes wandered from Bobby to Sam's ashen face, to the scratch marks and bruising adorning it. "Sam is safe but he's got to do the rest on his own. All we can do is stand at the sidelines and spur him on. Focus on the things you can really help with."

Bobby's eyes followed her gaze and lingered on the injured boy, trying hard to see the man beneath the dark brown mop of hair and the soft turn of Sam's mouth. He knew Ellen was right, that he had been tying himself into knots about situations he had no control over. It was clouding his judgement.

"Now we've got Sam covered so we need to focus on Dean. Tell me what you have got on this creature," Ellen prompted, drawing the hunter back into reality. "As you said, Dean wouldn't leave Sam alone in his condition unless his life depended on doing so. Given our line of work, it's safe to say Dean encountered whatever you were going to hunt. Is there any behaviour pattern? Any time frame for the attacks that might give us some clues?"

Bobby tried to remember the details of the file he had compiled before the fateful flight. "Uh, the file got a bit mangled in the crash. I retrieved everything I could find but I haven't had a chance to look at it again…" His voice trailed off, his words leaden with fatigue.

Ellen could tell he was on the brink of collapse. "I'll stay here with Sam. You check into the motel down the street and get some sleep then we need to compile everything we can get on this thing."

"The research sounds good but I'll skip the sleep," Bobby said.

"No you won't, Bobby Singer. Dean needs you sharp and right now you're about as sharp as a blancmange so you do as I say!"

Bobby raised his hands in surrender, "Okay, okay!" He figured what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her anyway. His momentary smile dipped when he looked at Sam. "You'll call me if there's any change, anything at all?"

"Of course," Ellen promised. "Now get!"

* * *

It had taken Ridley Miller the better part of fifteen minutes to manoeuvre Dean's body into his cramped sitting room, taking several rests as he pulled the dead weight through the house. He wasn't accustomed to such hard labour but the hope of the rewards it would bring to him would more than make up for his current discomfort. But he couldn't afford to allow himself to think of that just yet. He wasn't even sure this young man was going to pull through. Once out of the water, it was mere moments before blood had started to ooze from the numerous cuts across his body and Ridley knew better than to underestimate the power of infection. He was going to have to get to work quickly if the kid was going to be his salvation. 

Ignoring the twinge in his back, the old man bent over and made one last hauling move that put Dean awkwardly onto the sofa. Ridley arranged his limbs carefully, blood from the young hunter's wounds already seeping onto his hands as he did so. Once more, he checked for a pulse and found it much the same as before. The boy needed medical attention as quickly as possible and Ridley pulled himself up, hearing his joints clicking in protest as he did so, then directed himself towards the bathroom and his medical kit.

Returning to the couch, Ridley quietly surveyed the lifeless form stretched out where he would normally catch the game on TV with a cold beer. He hadn't imagined that the kid would get up and escape but a tiny part of him could hardly believe he had freedom in his grasp and that it wouldn't bite him in the ass. Ridley gently unwrapped the strips of T-shirt Dean had used on his chest and leaned forwards to examine the damage. He drew in a sharp breath, guiltily recognising the three deep and precise claw marks. He unscrewed the lid on his bottle of alcohol and glanced up at Dean's face. The young man's skin was white with blood loss, making the gashes on his forehead stand out in stark contrast. The first dousing of liquid in the wounds elicited no response but, as Ridley cleaned the second chest slash, the wounded man flinched. His breathing quickened and deep furrows etched themselves on his brow. The shivering of hypothermia was setting in again, making the old man's task even more difficult. Ridley waited for his charge to quieten before continuing and managed to swab the final cut without resistance.

He decided to deal with each set of claw marks one at a time. If he turned Dean over to get at the wounds on his back, Ridley risked tearing the chest further. Still, the suturing was going to be an unsavoury task now that his patient was drifting just below the surface of consciousness. He could wake up at any moment. Time was a-wasting and the job had to be done. It was a few minutes and several more curses before Ridley had his sterilised needle threaded in his old, shaking fingers. He pressed the inflamed edges of skin together and, his face mere inches away, Ridley began to push the needle through one side.

Struggling beneath the stultifying cloud of unconsciousness, Dean found himself finally grasping onto fleeting seconds of reality and the inevitable pain it brought with it. He had felt the softness of upholstered cushions beneath his back, a few moments of nothing, then burning pain in his chest. It streaked through his body and sent messages of warning to his brain but Dean couldn't see his way clear of the fog to help himself.

His body twitched unconsciously beneath Ridley's ministrations, a slight curl of his fingers the closest to an attempt at escape from the pain. Even though his brain could not connect enough dots to understand what was happening, Dean understood agony well enough and each stroke of the disinfectant against his broken flesh sent messages flaring through his body, synapses and receptors doing their job too well. The young hunter struggled to reach beyond the cruelty to grasp something solid, something safe that told him everything was going to be all right. But there was nothing. Dark emptiness gaped ahead, its only boundaries marked out by the blistering pain raging through his ravaged body. He thought he opened his mouth to call out but his own voice was lost to him and he knew no more.

Ridley pressed hard against the young man's shoulder, trying to calm him. He uttered quiet words of consolation but they were said without much feeling and consequently seemed to have little effect. Dean's struggles were minor, hardly enough to jolt his shaky stitching but Ridley prayed that complete unconsciousness would claim his patient soon. A moan escaped the young man's lips, his clear brow furrowed suddenly with lines of pain as the needle point weaved in and out of his torn skin.

* * *

Bobby had taken Ellen's advice, against his own wearied judgement, and soon found himself sitting on the edge of a lumpy bed in the aptly named Dead Dog Hotel. When he had left her alone in the hospital with Sam, Bobby had every intention of ignoring what Ellen had said. Yet, now here he was, eyelids drooping as his whole frame slumped with unmitigated fatigue. He hated his rebelling body for wimping out when Dean was still out there somewhere but the thought passed from his head as it hit the pillow and he fell asleep. 

Bobby was sure he had only kipped for an hour at most but the sky was dark when he opened his eyes and it took a moment before he was reoriented and realised he'd been out for more like seven. "Damn it!" he exhaled as he sat bolt upright on the bed. His back ached from the bad mattress but the hunter's mind was already in overdrive, figuring out how the hell he was going to make up for the time lost sleeping.

He fumbled for his backpack and tore through the contents in search of the crumpled paper remains of his file on the creature they had been hunting. Bobby knew he had to find answers and quickly. Even as they had set out for the wilderness days ago, he had not been able to connect the dots to create any kind of pattern for the attacks. In truth, they were restricted to a region but it was vast enough to make the task of finding Dean like looking for a needle in a haystack.

All the victims had been found with the same precise cross hatched slashes across the chest, overlaid with a circular symbol and some kind of elaborate staff within that. The two overriding theories were of ritualistic killings by a mass murderer or cult, or that an old Native American spirit still walked the unchartered territories of the forest. For most people, only the first theory would hold any water but Bobby was erring on the side of the second. There was absolutely no DNA recovered or any evidence of the killings being carried out by a human being. Over the years, the deaths had stacked up to over seventy unfortunate victims. Surely a killer would have made some kind of mistake by then, giving the local law enforcement something to go on.

Bobby flicked through the tattered file, coming to rest on a list of names at the foot of the last page. His internet contacts had come up with little but there was a small local history group which the hunter decided to check out. Without a website or even telephone number, Bobby had noted them down in the hope of finding out more once he reached the town.

The hunter felt his spirits lift as he realised he actually had some focus for his investigations. Quickly refreshing his face with a cold splash of water in the bathroom, Bobby headed out in search of the history society's address. In a small town, that didn't take long but what it lacked in sprawling acreage, it made up for in suspicious locals that gave Bobby a good run for his money.

His frustrating search ended, as it very often did, in the dingiest, darkest bar where whiskery old men sought the answers to happiness in the bottom of a whisky glass. It was there that the hunter found Ranger Wilson, the president of the local history society. He looked old enough to be the town's founder and Bobby didn't doubt that he had found his way to only information goldmine he was likely to find. He only hoped the poor sod was still on the right side of senility.

"Mr. Wilson?" Bobby proffered a hand, meeting the watery, blue eyes peering up at him from beneath coarse, white brows. "My name's Bobby Singer. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the history of Little River if that's okay."

Wilson contemplated the man before him for a second then spoke in a surprisingly clear, strong voice. "I always judge a man by his face…and I think you've got a good one, Bobby. Pull up a stool and I'll tell you anything you've got a mind to know. There's just one condition," the old man warned, wagging his bony finger in Bobby's face.

Bobby dug into his pockets, wondering if the condition would involve the same green paper that loosened most other people's lips.

"Call me Ranger. I left behind 'Mr. Wilson' a long time ago. Now what are you drinking?"

Bobby knew that what he really needed was a damn strong coffee but he wanted to fit in. "I'll have whatever you've got."

"Good man," Ranger grinned and called his order to the bartender. Once Bobby was set up with his whiskey, he settled into his questioning. The hunter knew better than to take things too quickly and he was careful not to broach the subject of the creature in the wood too early and arouse suspicion. For a good fifteen minutes, he built up slowly and listened politely to the industrial history of the town and the intertwining family trees that confirmed the inbreeding Bobby often suspected in small places.

Ranger took the hunter by surprise when he stopped mid-conversation and fixed Bobby with a steely gaze, tinted with a hint of amusement. "So are you going to tell me why you're really here, Bobby?" Bobby's expression of shock quickly eased into a smile and the two men laughed. Ranger flapped his hand, nonchalantly. "There's only one reason anyone comes to Little River anymore and that's for the thrill factor, the killings."

Bobby's mouth opened and closed like a fish while his brain worked overtime to figure out whether admitting the truth would work for or against him.

"It's okay, Bobby. I can separate the wheat from the chaff, the investigators from the tourists. Something tells me you're different though, neither aficionado nor tourist." Ranger narrowed his eyes. "You seem like the real deal to me and I've always got time for those."

"Glad to hear it," Bobby grinned, tugging habitually at his baseball cap. "I've heard the basics, seen the pictures. The carvings were meditated but all the other evidence shows signs of a savage animal attack."

Ranger nodded, gauging the hunter's response to what he had heard. "And what do you think killed all those people? You've looked at the facts and I think you're the kind of guy who has a theory. So let's hear it."

Bobby took a swig of whisky and tried to hide his surprise at Ranger's candidness. "My theory? Most of the images I have seen point to animal attack. The claw patterns and the depth of each slash would indicate the power of a bear. But then a bear wouldn't carve such a precise and intricate pattern. It can't be one murderer because two of the killings occurred within hours of each other on complete opposite sides of the region. Somehow, it doesn't seems like the work of a group or cult." Bobby scrubbed a hand over his beard and looked carefully at Ranger. "So that leaves a killer with inhuman speed, the strength and savagery of an angry bear and an interest in detailed carving on its prey."

The two men exchanged a look of mutual understanding. "This place has never seen anything quite like it."

"Sorry to say that I have," Bobby murmured.

"And morbid curiosity drove you to discover all the grisly details?" Ranger asked, gently.

"Not anymore. Now it's personal." Bobby's voice was laden with disgust.

Ranger nodded in understanding. "Listen, I hate to break it to you but you're not the first one to come around here looking for answers, bringing pictures of loved ones. Nobody's found what they needed to hear."

"I'm sure you're right about that but I think I've got an edge," Bobby murmured, wishing he could taste his own words more confidently.

Ranger nodded quietly. "I hear you. And since I'm taking to you, I'll tell you a little known fact. It was kept on the quiet for many years after the circus show Little River became after the last spate of killings. But you gotta understand, Bobby, our people suffered greatly because of all this. When the media descended on us, they dragged our town's good name through the mud and we're still recovering. Less than savoury characters landed at our doors, trying to conjure up the evil or emulate it, the tourism we relied on all but dried up. We don't need another pounding. Little River is rebuilding itself, healing…"

Bobby leaned forwards, "Don't worry on that score. I'm a 'stick to the shadows' kind of person. I'm not out looking for a spotlight. I just want to serve justice and see the people I care about safe and sound."

"Well then, I'll tell you this much. The killer was found, that is to say, _a_ killer was found."

Bobby raised his eyebrows in surprise, "What?! I didn't hear about that."

"You wouldn't. As I said, the town suffered hugely from the bad wrap and people just wanted it to go away. The authorities kept the trial and subsequent incarceration as quiet as possible." Ranger beckoned to the barman for another drink, letting the fiery liquid slip down his aged throat.

"But how did he explain the 'inhuman' elements of the killings?" Bobby asked.

"He gave the police just enough to convince but all anyone really wanted was a confession and there it was, handed to them on a plate. They took it and the matter was considered closed," Ranger shrugged.

"But we know better, right?" Bobby said, pressing the old man to admit what he knew was being shouted from just below the surface. Ranger's watery eyes met the hunter's, a flash of passion igniting from their depths and Bobby knew he had his answer. "You got a name for the convicted man?"

"Alan Naughton, I think his name was. Just walked into the local police station and confessed to everything. Even though his physical strength was called into question, his precise knowledge of all the bodies' whereabouts and the subsequent discovery of several skeletons at those sites clinched it. 'Course the man was crazy as they come, ended up in a psychiatric facility near Whitehorse."

"Can I get in to speak to him?" Bobby inquired. "He's got to know something that would help me."

Ranger shook his head. "You could try but people say the lights are on but no one's home."

"Thank you. I can't tell you how much of a help this has been." Bobby reached a hand across the table, surprised by the firmness with which it was shaken, downed the rest of his whiskey and headed in the direction of the hospital.

* * *

A cracked ceiling came into focus, criss-crossed with dark oak beams. As his eyes focused groggily on his surroundings, cobwebs could be seen and branch-like shadows dancing across the paintwork. Dean surveyed the scene with blank detachment, the reality of the situation dawning slowly as his traumatised body came to life. At first, his brain was only fit to deal with the immediate and he began to wonder where he was. Many years of calling a motel room home had removed the sense of panic that might normally come from unfamiliar ceiling patterns. Instead, Dean studied the beams and cracks with indifference – a cruddy motel perhaps, an abandoned house at the side of the road? Sam would know. Sam. Before he had even mustered the strength to turn his head, Dean knew his brother wasn't there, like some sixth sense. 

The mere effort of turning his head set off a pounding in a skull that caused the young hunter to wince. He drew in a sharp breath, igniting a fire in his chest that made him wish breathing wasn't necessary to stay alive. Confusion clouded Dean's thoughts as he tried to make sense of the new world around him. Lifting his cotton wool filled head, Dean peered down at his own body. He commanded his hand to clumsily draw back the quilt covering his torso and took in the bandages covering much of his chest. A shadow of a frown passed across his brow as fragments of memory connected together like jigsaw pieces. He remembered kneeling in a river, dark woods…and something more, something sinister. Levering himself up further on the sofa, Dean fumbled for the bandage knot and peeled off the dressing beneath. He hissed in pain but the need to know what had happened to him spurred him on.

The padded dressing was already spotted with fresh blood and Dean was expecting to find a raw wound beneath. He was surprised to see neat rows of stitches running the breadth of his chest. Three slashes were red and inflamed, the puffy skin puckered beneath the dark stitches. Dean couldn't help touching them, curiosity and revulsion fighting for supremacy.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came a low voice from nearby.

Dean's heart lurched in his chest and his eyes widened in shock. A man, probably well into his sixties or early seventies moved closer to the end of the couch until he was clearly in Dean's line of sight. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Dean struggled to pull himself a little further upright. He didn't like feeling vulnerable around strangers, hell, he didn't like being made to feel vulnerable period. Lying down left him wide open to attack. However, what his brain wanted and what his body needed were two very different things. The sudden movement sent ripples of pain through his chest that Dean hadn't been prepared for.

Ridley watched his young charge's face pale into green-tinged pastiness. "Easy, easy there. Just lie back. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Where am I? Where's Sam?" Dean asked, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

"You're safe," Ridley replied, carefully skirting the subject. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked, noticing the veil of confusion which had fallen over the young hunter's face.

Dean shook his head, his eyes darting suspiciously between the face of his carer and the hot cup of tea that had just been put into his hands. His fingers ached as he curled them around the mug, a deep seated aching that felt oddly familiar. Then it started coming back to him – a hunting trip with Dad. He had fallen through some thin ice and it had been a job for his father to get him out in time. The knife like pain of falling into freezing water had seemed like nothing compared to the excruciating aches and pains that came the next morning. Dean was only moving his fingers and that was enough of a telltale sign as to what the rest of his body was going to feel like.

"I found you near drowned in the river. Do you remember anything?"

Dean wasn't paying attention to what the old man was saying. Instead, he was intent on trying to piece together the events leading up to this moment. "Where's Sam?" he blurted out, more demanding this time. Without thinking, Dean tried to sit up properly, promptly sending waves of pain through his unresponsive limbs.

Ridley pressed his hands against Dean's chest. "Woah there, you'll pull your stitches! Tale it easy. Who's Sam?"

"He's my brother…I've got to find him," Dean said, panic rising in his voice. "Have you got a phone?"

"There's no reception out here. Listen, I didn't see anyone else and you were in pretty bad shape. You need to lie still and rest for a few days. First things first, what's your name? I'm Ridley." He had deliberated over whether to introduce himself using his real name, eventually deciding it didn't matter. There was too much paraphernalia with his name written on around the house - certificates, books, letters, which would make the lie too awkward. Plus, if things went according to plan, his patient would never have the opportunity to turn his name over to the police. Ridley began to wonder if the young hunter had heard him because Dean made no move to respond. Instead, his hazel eyes moved wildly over his surroundings like a trapped animal. "Hey, do you know your name?"

Finally, Dean brought his attention back to the old man sitting beside him. "Dean. I was…hunting. My brother was injured and our friend went for help. I don't know if he made it back. Listen, I've got to find Sam. He could be in danger."

"Okay, settle down. Let me deal with this. I've got an old radio that I use to communicate with the town in bad weather. I'll ask if they've brought anyone in matching your brother's description. Then, I'll arrange for you to get back to town. How does that sound?"

Dean nodded, uncertainly, not really happy unless he was dealing with a problem on his own. Ridley felt his own tension growing. He needed this kid but the old man was starting to wonder if he'd picked one with too much fighting spirit. He needed compliance and Dean didn't look like he was even going to trust that Ridley's phone was out. "The condition is that you stay put right here, no trying to get up or move around for today."

"Sounds good," Dean admitted, taking another sip of tea. He watched Ridley leave the room and listened to his receding footsteps to get some idea of how big the house was, then added under his breath, "But I'm not making any promises." His chest hurt like a bitch and his legs felt heavy as lead, starting to ache incessantly. In spite of this, Dean's need to know that Sam was okay, to see it for himself, spurred him on. In the past, he had carried on fighting with a bullet in him and driven them both to safety with a concussion. Some stitches and aches, no matter how awful, wouldn't keep him from making sure his little brother was safe.

He looked idly towards the window, focusing on the long shadows of spidery tree branches crawling along the wall. Dean wondered how far away they really were from civilisation. No phone reception wasn't exactly unusual round these parts and the hunter began to wonder if he would be able to walk to town in reasonable time. He didn't like relying on other people, especially strangers. In his experience, his suspicions were generally well founded.

Suddenly, exhaustion hit him like a well aimed stone. His head fell back against the cushions and he clenched his jaw as a cold shiver ran through his injured body. Dean couldn't deny that he needed to rest but that had to wait. Sam's welfare was more important. He struggled to form a plan, refusing to allow himself to place trust in this strange, old man. Frustratingly, Dean's brain seemed fatigued and sluggish, connecting ideas increasingly slowly. He fought to keep his eyes from closing but they felt as heavy as bricks and it was all the young hunter could do to place his mug on the floor before the darkness closed in around him.

From his vantage point just out of Dean's eye line, Ridley waited until his charge was completely out. He watched until the rise and fall of the boy's chest showed deep, even strides before approaching the couch. He leaned down and gently extricated the mug from Dean's lax fingers, swilling the last of the tea around in the bottom as he checked that enough of the sedative had gone down.

Miller wasn't a sentimental man; in fact, many would call him hard as nails. Yet, even he was momentarily touched by the vulnerability of this young man stretched out in his living room. Dean looked so childlike now, his free hand curled protectively across his chest, dark lashes framing pale cheeks. Ridley felt shame in the deepest recess of his heart but knowledge of the alternatives spurred him on. Dean's life would save scores of other hapless victims and, more importantly, save Ridley's own. For a moment, he just stood there silently, noting the chiseled contours of the face, the dark shadow of stubble along Dean's jaw, the barely discernible frown lines on his forehead. The tranquillity of his face belied the torment to come and Ridley grimaced inwardly as he tried to block the images of this same face drawn into a tortured mask of pain when the time came. He wished in his heart that the circumstances were different, that he wasn't the one to carry the curse, but sadly wishes changed nothing. Shrugging away unhelpful thoughts, Ridley turned his steps to the basement and the chains he needed to fix to the wall.

END OF PART 10


	11. For Better Or Worse

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : SORRY, SORRY, SORRY, SORRY for the ridiculous wait!!! First and foremost, a huge thank you to everyone who has been reviewing, especially to those who have nudged & cajoled in the last few weeks. I really needed a kind but firm kick up the backside to get me going again! I'm running out of decent apologies for not updating sooner. My job is just extremely intense when I'm there & my brain just seems to unplug itself by the time I get home!

I have been so flattered and surprised by how closely people have been reading and it has made a big difference when writing new chapters. I've tried to reply to anyone I can but a very big thank you also goes out to those I couldn't : RireneC, Heather and Cris.

Shannon - I_do_ like cherries! Request duly noted…I actually do have a plan for some Sam complications, depending on how much I/my readers want to extend the story. They're just so fun to whump!

Most importantly, HAPPY NEW YEAR!! I hope 2008 is a great one for all of you... just not _too_ good for our Winchester brothers!

PART 11: FOR BETTER OR WORSE

Ellen set aside the newspaper she had been reading aloud for the past half hour. She felt somewhat guilty when she realised how little she really knew about the Winchester boys. Sure, she knew the big stuff, the tragedies that wrenched a family apart and left gaping wounds that never healed. It was the little things like which sport Sam followed, his favourite music or food, that she had missed out on. Then, given their line of work, it was quite likely that even Sam didn't know the answers either and somehow that made it even worse. When would the boys have had a chance to sit and read the Sunday papers or catch a game of baseball? As for food, Ellen didn't have to stretch her imagination to figure out that their diet consisted mainly of fast food and takeout.

She sighed and looked over at where Sam lay, taking in the emaciated body, bones almost jutting through the thin fabric of the blanket. How she wished she could give him a good meal right now. Ellen stood up and walked to the window in an attempt to stretch her legs and alleviate the ache in the base of her back. The day was dreary outside, grey clouds and snow running the gamut from black ice to dirty slush beneath people's boots. She wondered how Bobby was getting on. It had been several hours since she'd sent him packing and Ellen didn't think the old hunter would stay away for too long.

She tried to tune out the whoosh and hiss of the ventilator as she returned to Sam's bedside and ran her hand through the dark mop of hair down to the nape of his neck. "I reckon Bobby'll be back soon," she said. "He's been researching. I bet he'll have dug up something real useful and juicy for us." Ellen kept up a rambling one-sided conversation for a few more minutes, watching Sam's face for any sign of recognition or change. She took his hand in hers, finding reassurance in the weight of his slender fingers in her palm.

She found it difficult to get used to seeing Sam so quiet and still when Ellen always thought of him as full of life. Hospitals had always made her uncomfortable. Apart from giving birth, her only experience of the places was as a terrified wife. She had sat at Bill's bedside too regularly for comfort. Ellen remembered trying to explain away the bizarre wounds when she brought him bleeding to the ER and she vividly recalled the first time she had seen him on a ventilator just as Sam was now. She remembered the horror of seeing the man she loved reduced to a mass of wires and tubes, his very essence stripped away. Even worse than that was the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. There was absolutely nothing Ellen could do besides sit there and hold Bill's hand until he woke up. Even when he finally did emerge from the depths of unconsciousness, he had been a fragile mirror image of the man she knew. It had taken weeks for the old Bill to return.

Holding Sam's hand now, Ellen prayed that the young Winchester would wake up strong, that he would manage to fight off the demons that threatened to crush him. Yes, he had to be strong or he wouldn't survive the blow she was going to have to deliver. "C'mon, Sam," she murmured gently as she caressed his fingers. "Come on back to us."

A movement caught her eye and Ellen looked up to see a doctor in the doorway. "Hello," he greeted her, warmly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Dr. Clancy, Sam's doctor." He proffered a hand to shake.

"Ellen…Sam's aunt," Ellen replied, almost forgetting the role she had adopted in order to ensure she maintained access to the bedside. "How's he doing?"

Clancy moved to the foot of the bed and examined Sam's chart carefully. "He's doing very well, all things considering. Will he be staying with you during the recovery period?" He read the monitor figures and made notes as he talked.

Ellen had been given plenty of time to think about what would happen once Sam was released from hospital. She had left the Roadhouse in the care of a good friend who would keep a necessary eye on Jo and Ash at the same time. There was no way Sam would be able to make the plane trip back to the States immediately. Besides, it wasn't like he had a permanent home to recover in anyway. Then, there was the elephant in the room that was called Dean. Not in a million years would Sam leave Little River without his older brother. Ellen sighed, "Yes. Why do you ask?"

Dr. Clancy's face took on a mellow, almost sympathetic expression. "Sam's gone through a lot. His body might be healing nicely but it is often the mental repercussions which take their toll. You'd be a better judge than me, I don't know Sam, but you should probably prepare yourself for bouts of depression, feelings of guilt or resentment."

Ellen nodded sombrely, remembering similar after effects in her husband after a hunt gone horribly wrong. "Especially with his brother missing."

"Yes, I am truly sorry to hear about that." Clancy paused, his mouth open as if to continue but then thought better of it.

Ellen noticed and refused to let it pass. "What is it?"

Dr. Clancy dismissed the thought with a flick of the wrist as he replaced Sam's chart at the foot of the bed. "It's nothing…really. Just silly hocus pocus. You don't need to hear it."

Ellen pressed on, her interest piqued. "No, please. I've been known to place my trust in hocus pocus in the past." She tried to keep her tone light but her heart was beating faster in her chest as she realised she might be handed a clue as to Dean's whereabouts. Where there was hocus pocus, there was demon activity and somehow these Winchesters had become a magnet for it. Her hand automatically sought out Sam's once more and she sat back down in the chair.

"Well, if I don't tell you, chances are it'll come from someone else soon enough." Clancy scrutinised Ellen's face for a moment as if weighing up whether he should embark on his story or not. "Every town has dark patches in their histories and Little River is no different. Over a period of centuries, there have been bouts of killings, about thirty years apart, their circumstances somewhat similar to Sam's. Hikers were found murdered, their chests mutilated with a kind of geometric design."

Ellen nodded mutely, waiting for him to continue. Clancy still seemed unsure that he should be telling her about the killings and he was hesitant before carrying on. "Given what your husband has told us about the plane crash, Sam's circumstances are somewhat different but I have a theory. I think that some time after your husband went for help, this killer attacked Sam."

"How can you be sure?" Ellen asked, puzzled.

"I can't be sure but the marks on his chest correlate exactly with those of previous victims…"

"There are slashes on his chest?!" Ellen blurted out. Bobby had filled her in on everything he knew but he had neglected to mention anything about these injuries. She wondered if he actually knew. It wasn't difficult to imagine the panicked scene when the paramedics found Sam and Bobby discovered Dean was missing. By the time she had arrived at the hospital, the poor man was beside himself, almost incapable of coherent thought and speech. It would have been easy for Bobby to miss something as relatively insignificant as knife like slashes when Sam had internal bleeding, infection and was unable to breathe on his own. He had probably assumed, as she had, that the bandages were to bind the broken ribs.

"You didn't know?" Dr. Clancy said in surprise. He gently peeled back the blankets covering Sam and carefully drew his hospital gown downwards, exposing the young man's chest. The bandages and dressings were firmly bound but a small spot of blood had still managed to seep through, indicating where the lacerations were. Ellen flinched at the sight of the raw bruising still visible wherever flesh showed. Sam looked so frail, his body emaciated even with the padding covering much of his torso.

Clancy carefully replaced the gown and the blankets then looked to Ellen for a reaction. "I am sorry to have told you so bluntly. I thought you knew…"

"It's fine," Ellen replied, composing herself once more. "Thank you for telling me about this." There was an awkward pause while Clancy digested the ludicrous nature of what he had just said and Ellen tried to digest what she was hearing amid her torrent of emotions. "So, do you think Dean interrupted and the 'killer' went after him instead?"

"I couldn't possibly say…but yes, that would be my theory," Clancy admitted.

"Doctor, tell me the truth. Has anyone ever survived an attack?" Ellen could hear her voice shaking, refusing to acknowledge that Dean might have finally met his match.

"Until Sam, no." Clancy couldn't dress the answer up any more than that. "I am truly sorry." He watched the distressed woman grip Sam's hand more tightly, her eyes shining with tears. Beneath the professional veneer, the family man in him hoped that the poor kid would wake up soon and bring some light back into his aunt and uncle's lives. It was horrific to see a loved one fighting for survival in front of you, but to lose another to a killer simultaneously was tragedy in the extreme. "I'll be back to check on him later," he said, quietly and left Ellen alone with her grief.

* * *

The first thing Dean was aware of as he awoke was an oddly bitter taste in his mouth. He swallowed, grimacing as he tried to get rid of it. Slowly, he opened his eyes and felt a surge of panic when he realised he couldn't see anything. Was he blind? Reflexively, he tried to draw his hands to his face but they felt heavy as lead and he distinctly heard an ominous clanking sound as he moved. Fumbling in the darkness, his fingers came to rest on heavy manacles securely attached to his wrists. They must have been old because Dean could feel the slight flaking of iron as he moved his hand over one of them. His mounting panic peaked as the horrific truth dawned on him. He was being held hostage here. Gradually, his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness and Dean breathed a small sigh of relief when he knew he wasn't blinded. Even so, the young hunter could feel his heart pounding in his chest like a beat box and he knew he needed to calm down. "Get ahold of yourself, Winchester," he commanded himself, a little comforted by hearing his own voice in the darkness.

For a few moments, Dean let his head drop back against what he assumed was a mattress beneath him. He concentrated on swallowing back the fear and forcing the resourceful hunter in him out of hiding. "Think, think…" he murmured to himself. In his varying states of ill health over the past hours, he was only now piecing together the facts of what had happened to him. Dean retraced his steps mentally until everything fell into order. He remembered watching over Sam, the shadowy creature he had chased into the forest. Things became a bit blurry after that but the hunter could feel the sting of the stitches on his chest and figured out the rest for himself. The creature must have injured him and the old man found him. Dean vaguely remembered the conversation they had shared before he had been…drugged? That would account for the nasty taste in his mouth and the grogginess clouding his brain like a fog.

Once the initial panic was gone, Dean began to feel anger boiling up inside him. How dare this man drug him and chain him up instead of taking him to the nearest hospital?! It only confirmed that he had fallen on the worst kind of luck in the universe or the creature and his captor were somehow linked. As quickly as it had come, the anger bubbled and faded as desperation took its place. "Sammy…" he breathed. Images of his brother, pale and dying on a river bank flashed through his brain. Dean bit his lip to stop the whimper of horror escaping. Would he feel it if Sam were dead? Would he feel a part of himself breaking inside? Sam must be alive, Dean told himself. Bobby was a reliable guy. Bobby wouldn't leave Sam out there, alone in the darkness, any more than he would. The young hunter railed against the fear inside and won it over. Sam was safe, Bobby would see to it. Besides, there was no use in getting ahead of himself. Even if Sam were in need of him, Dean was stuck in this god forsaken hole until he saved himself. He had to focus…more than one life depended on it.

The young Winchester sat up, wincing as the world spun sickeningly on its axis. Forgetting the weight of the chains, Dean tried to lift his hands to his head but settled on resting it between his knees until the nausea passed. Then, he peered into the gloom and tried to get a handle on what he was dealing with. There was a sliver of light coming down through the floorboards above him, over in the far corner. It wasn't much but his eyes soon found it as bright as an overhead electric light. The room was clearly some kind of basement, the damp and cold telling him he was well below ground level. The walls were made of heavy stones that didn't look like they would shift any time soon. There were no windows to speak of but a rickety looking staircase took up one corner and Dean didn't need to be able to see it to know there would be a door into the house at the top. The only furniture was the lumpy mattress he was lying on and two blankets folded considerately beside it.

Already convinced of his solitude, Dean whispered hoarsely, "Hello? Anyone there?" He wouldn't like the surprise of discovering that he was not alone. Plus, it would give a good indication as to whether this was a popular pastime for Ridley or if he was a lucky one-off. Once he was sure there were no other unfortunate hostages, Dean turned his attention to freeing himself from the chains. He ran his right hand over the left manacle, searching for some kind of lock that he could pick. Lock picking was one of the first skills he acquired as a hunter and he had always been proud of that. His dad had always applied a bit too much brute force so Dean had occasionally been invited along on a hunt purely because of his excellent breaking and entering skills. In the world of Winchester, burglary, not school reports, made a dad happy.

At first, Dean thought his freezing cold fingers were to blame for not finding the lock but, as he examined the right manacle, he grimly realised that these were pretty old chains. There was no lock, Ridley had welded them onto his wrists. Dean's heart dropped into his stomach. He wasn't being kept hostage…he was meant to die here.

* * *

"Ellen," Bobby whispered, resting his hand gently on her shoulder.

Ellen lifted her head from its resting place on her arms, her eyes darting from Bobby to Sam instantly. Convinced that the young man was still alive and fighting, she allowed herself to relax again. "What's up? Did you get some rest?" she asked, rubbing at her bleary eyes.

"Yeah," Bobby brushed the concern off, his eyes fired up with the new lead he had uncovered. "I spoke to this guy from the local history society. He told me someone confessed to the murders, all of them. He's in the Whitehorse psychiatric facility. I'm going to try and talk to him."

"But it's not human," Ellen stated, bluntly.

"I know that," Bobby snapped in exasperation. "He must have been connected somehow though. Maybe he controlled the creature. We'll know soon enough." Bobby paused, the smile of success fading when he noticed how washed out and stressed Ellen appeared. He looked at Sam, the obvious train of thought lurching into his mind. "What is it? Is it Sam? Has he, you know….got worse?" The words fell from his lips like a bad omen.

Ellen shook her head. "Did you know that the creature got to Sam?"

"What do you mean? How do you know?" Bobby asked, puzzled.

"There are lacerations on his chest that match the other victims' patterns perfectly." Ellen's gaze hovered over Bobby's, waiting to see his reaction.

"I, I didn't know. Ellen, there was just so much going on…I can't believe…" Bobby scrubbed his hands over his beard, horrified at his critical oversight.

Ellen's hand curled around his own, a strained smile making it to her lips. "It's okay. You don't have to explain. I understand."

"If it got to Sam, then Dean would have been there. He must have tried to fight it and…" Bobby's voice trailed off as hunter's intuition became a certainty, the proof lying in the bed right in front of them. "Do you think it has done anything to harm Sam?"

Ellen turned to the drawn young hunter, his face clear of worry lines. Her gaze travelled down over the ventilator tubing secured across his jaw, down past the needles in his arms to the traction that was preventing risk of paralysis. Surely he couldn't suffer anymore pain, how could he possibly deserve it when he had already lost so much? "I don't know. His doctor says he is doing well, physically, but I guess we won't know for sure until he wakes up."

Bobby cleared his throat uncertainly. "Do you think we should, you know?" He jerked his head in Sam's direction. Seeing Ellen's puzzled frown, he added, "Should we take a look?"

"What for?"

"For clues, of course! You think some cops making their report will see the same thing as us?" Bobby acknowledged Ellen's look of horror. "Look, I don't want to hurt the poor kid any more than you do but it could mean the difference between finding Dean or losing him forever."

Ellen's steely glare softened. "Fine, maybe you're right. But I'm dealing with the dressings. The last thing Sam needs is your clumsy sausage fingers adding to his problems." Her mouth curled into a half smile at Bobby's indignant expression. She leaned close to Sam and smoothed back his hair, her fingers trailing lightly down his gaunt cheek. "Sam, if you can hear me, I'm sorry, but we have to do this. You just hang on in there, sugar."

She spared a quick glance in Bobby's direction then pulled back the blankets and Sam's gown until his chest was exposed. Wincing in acknowledgement of the pain it should cause, even if the patient was unconscious, she loosened the bandages and slipped them up out of the way. Then, she picked at the tape securing the dressings, slowly pulling it back to reveal narrow slices criss-crossing Sam's chest. The skin was still quite pink and sore where the stitches weaved in and out. Neat rows of dark stitches stood out starkly against the paleness of Sam's flesh and there were occasional bumps where the subcutaneous layer had been stitched up internally.

It was the first time Ellen had seen any real evidence of the trauma Sam's body had truly undergone and it shocked her more than she let on. Swallowing hard, she caught Bobby's similarly shocked expression and quickly looked away. The lacerations looked like someone had been playing a sadistic game of noughts and crosses on the hunter's chest but then there were diagonal slashes overlaid which gave the pattern new levels of intricacy.

Bobby reached out to where one of the slashes trailed off down the side of Sam's ribcage. Almost simultaneously, the heart monitor's pace altered a fraction. After days of sitting at the bedside, the tiniest change in rhythm didn't go unnoticed by either adult. Two pairs of eyes immediately looked to the monitor, watching the squiggles and figures, unwilling to trust what they had heard until they had seen the evidence. Sure enough, the numbers and lines were indicating some kind of change, too. "Do you think we should call for someone?" Bobby asked.

"No," Ellen replied. "We need to cover his chest back up. He'll settle." She studied Sam's face, momentarily disgusted at herself for treating him more like a piece of meat than a human being. Her fingers cupped his face gently, her thumb brushing lightly across his pallid cheek. Already alert to the slightest movement, she gasped when Sam's head moved suddenly. "Bobby…I think he's waking up."

The older hunter leaned over her, his heart in his mouth. After everything that had happened it would be like a miracle to see Sam awake again. He gripped the young man's right hand in his own, not caring how hard he squeezed. He needed Sam to know that he was there, give the poor kid something to anchor himself to.

Ellen's motherly touch and gentle coaxing seemed to be working. Sam's eyelids trembled, only a little at first, but then more frequently. "Sam?" she whispered close to his ear. "Open your eyes for me. Come on, I know you can do it. Come on back to us." Her fingers never left their position by his cheek and her free hand reached for his, willing him back to the surface.

After several moments, Sam's eyes cracked open. At first, they registered nothing, lazily focused on the ceiling above his head. Despite Ellen's words of comfort, the young hunter didn't seem even remotely aware of her presence and she couldn't contain the surge of fear that perhaps the creature had indeed done something to him. "Sam," she tried again, increasing the pressure on his cheek. Ever so slowly, glassy hazel eyes glided in the direction of her face and settled there. Ellen couldn't suppress the relieved grin that spread across her face and she glanced up at Bobby whose face reflected her own.

"Hey sweetie," she murmured, finding herself using the nicknames she had always given to Jo when the motherly mood struck. "Sam, squeeze my hand if you can hear me?"

Sam was wrapped up in a cocoon, disconnected from the outside world. He had no concept of how long he had been under but self-awareness had been gradually returning and the tiniest of thoughts, mere flashes of feelings, were tugging at the corners of his mind. Aware but somehow paralysed and unable to act, Sam had been content to continue floating in the safety and warmth surrounding him. Occasionally, twinges of discomfort broke through the bubble but he rode them out or the comforting darkness embraced him once more. Then, something changed. The odd moment of directionless discomfort suddenly found a very definite source. He began to grow dimly aware of his own senses and his body. Sam could feel a distinct ache that was sharpening like a whetted knife with each passing moment. He tried to withdraw from it but the darkness seemed to be retreating from him, forcing him forwards into a world of confusing sensations.

Sam began to understand that there was a real world beyond him and he felt the presence of people nearby. Noises, voices murmured in his ear but he couldn't make out what they were saying. As he focused harder on reattaching himself to his senses, Sam started to feel things that made him afraid. His throat felt sore and heavy as if there was something in it. Aches blossomed throughout his body and the young hunter tried to catalogue them but struggled to keep track. His back hurt the most but then suddenly there was a stabbing sharpness in his chest that propelled him further towards consciousness. The hissing in his ear became recognisable as whispers and Sam felt himself drawn to its soothing cadences.

He finally managed to open leaden eyelids but could see nothing but blurry white light. Was he going to Heaven? Still, the whispering continued and Sam could feel the pressure of something against his cheek. Someone was squeezing his hand and, carefully, he looked to see who or what it was. An indistinct smudge of a face hovered over him. He wanted to speak but the darkness had decided it would take him back now. His will was easily overcome and Sam allowed his tired eyes to close once more.

Bobby and Ellen watched with disappointment as Sam's eyes closed mere moments after they had opened. Bobby pressed the young man's hand firmly, feeling an odd mixture of relief and fear as he drifted away from them. "Sam, hang on in there."

Ellen's thumb continued to stroke Sam's cheek, "He's still got a lot of healing to do. His body needs to rest. We mustn't push him too hard." Beneath her cheering words, she too was disappointed.

Bobby released the young Winchester's hand and sank back into the nearby chair. He knew it was going to take a long time for Sam to recover but it was disheartening to see him sink back into unconsciousness. After days of watching countless machines and drugs keep his body alive, seeing those soulful brown eyes open for the first time had felt like a lead weight lifted from his chest. Once they closed, the moment only served to remind him how lifeless Sam was again now.

Regaining her composure, Ellen resumed her examination of Sam's chest, being extra careful not to touch or aggravate the wounds further. Bobby soon returned to the bedside, too, and together they peered down at the scores of slashes. It was hard to detach themselves from the emotions they felt in seeing someone they cared about carved up so horrifically. It was only knowledge of the bigger picture that pushed them on. Dean was lost, at the mercy of whatever this damned creature was, and they were the only people with any chance of rescuing him. Sam would want them to do this. Both Ellen and Bobby knew the kid would tear out the stitches and reopen the wounds if he thought it would do anything to help find his brother.

They leaned close and examined the cuts again closely. Ellen grabbed her phone from her purse and took several photographs, feeling morbidly like a crime scene visitor rather than a loved one. Bobby exhaled sharply in frustration. "There's nothing to use here. It's just the same as all the others!" He tried to keep his voice even and low but the desperation that he had been barely suppressing for days was finally showing through.

Ellen did her best to calm him but she knew it was a losing battle. "Bobby, don't worry. We can still find Dean. Visit the psychiatric facility, get whatever information you can. Remember that, combined, we have a good fifty years of experience in all this."

"I just, I really thought they'd be something, a clue or some symbol I could name…" Bobby rambled.

"I know you did. But you can't give up on Dean now. He needs you sharp. Remember, when you first entered this room, you didn't even know about Sam's slash wounds, but you were happy. You still have that lead." Ellen's eyes bore into the older hunter, willing him to step up to the plate.

Bobby nodded and ran a hand over his beard. "I know, I know. I just hate all this…emotional stuff. It's why I live on my own, you know." His voice was serious but Ellen could see the flash of humour beneath.

Once Bobby had gone, she carefully replaced the gauze and bandages then called to alert the nurse about Sam's waking.

* * *

Dean was starting to feel the cold. He couldn't stop shivering and his fingers remained frozen stiff despite blowing on them and hiding them beneath two layers of blanket. Clearly Ridley wanted him alive but didn't care too much about his general comfort. The darkness was getting to him and Dean had to school himself in dealing with the screams and shouts desperately clawing to be released. It made him ache inside to know that every moment spent in this freezing hell hole was a moment he wasn't at Sam's side. Then, a new thought entered his head. Every moment that ticked past down here took Dean a step closer to whatever this Ridley freak had in store for him. Driven by his typical disregard for his own wellbeing, it was the former that terrified him most.

He balled his hands into fists as he worked the heavy iron manacles against the brick walls. Dean wasn't sure exactly what he hoped to accomplish but he couldn't stand the prospect of sitting idly by, waiting for his fate to come to him. Besides, the iron was old and, ever the optimist, he was hopeful he might be able to bash a weak spot out of the chain links. Dean was past caring about whether Ridley could hear him. He figured anyone who kept manacles handy around the house had done this before and, therefore, knew a little about how prisoners thought. He would expect nothing less of Dean.

Time took on a new meaning – one minute down here equated to about ten above world. Dean had no true concept of it beyond what his body told him might be lunch time and the moving shadows where tiny chinks of light made it down to the basement. To his surprise, Ridley seemed equally aware of his captive's bodily needs. Without fail, Dean received three square meals a day and the old man regularly changed the bucket he had provided as a toilet.

The first few times Ridley had come to collect it, Dean had attempted some humour but the man was consistently silent. He wouldn't answer any of the young hunter's questions and neither would he be drawn into chit-chat. The kind, old pensioner role he had played so perfectly before had been completely erased and replaced with an equally impeccable performance of a cold, detached killer.

By what Dean reckoned to be the third day, he was still continuing his slow effacing of the left manacle iron with about as much success as one could expect from heavy metal against old brick. Dean cursed violently and couldn't resist the urge to punch the wall with all his might. He winced in pain and swore again, hugging his injured hand to his chest.

His knuckles were bloodied and grazed. Dean couldn't be sure if he had broken anything but it sure as hell felt like it. He was surprised at his own strength but eventually put it down to the ever-present frustration of being cooped up. Fighting he could deal with, throwing punches, taking his life into his own hands. What Dean couldn't stand was being tied up like a piece of curing meat until such time as he became useful. He was going stir-crazy. "Just get on with it, old man!" the hunter blurted out. He wished he could shout it to the heavens but something told him it might give Ridley just a bit too much satisfaction.

Contenting himself with muttering expletives under his breath, Dean suddenly paused as Ridley's footsteps in the house above stopped and the young hunter could distinctly hear the old man's voice. Was there someone else in the house? A visitor? Dean calmed his breathing as he focused on the mumbled voices above his head. He couldn't hear a different tone or the familiar rhythm of conversation going backwards and forwards. It sounded more like Ridley was talking to himself. Dean let out a sigh of exasperation – stupid, doddering old man! Then, his interest was piqued again. Ridley's voice seemed to rise, an edge of panic came into the mumbling. Dean couldn't resist the urge to shout out. "Help! Somebody help me! I'm down in the cellar!" His words echoed blindly around the empty space.

Dean paused to listen again. Ridley's fear mounted, the tone of terror undeniable, then it descended once more into a constant rhythm. But if he was not mistaken, Dean began to hear the undeniable sound of someone reciting something…an incantation. "God damn it!" Dean muttered.

In spite of all his hunter instincts, Dean couldn't deny the recoiling sensation in his stomach and the way his heart began racing. Whatever Ridley was up to, it was supernatural, and it didn't take a genius to realise that Dean was going to be bait. An old man who had no idea he was a hunter was easy to take on, even with shackles. A creature of the demon world with Dean in shackles was a dead hunter…and it wouldn't be quick either.

Dean swallowed, his mouth suddenly parched. That wasn't all he was starting to feel either. He was already as frozen as he could be but he could have sworn the basement temperature had gone down by another five degrees. He tried to focus on maintaining his cool, preparing what little ammunition he had to deal with whatever this demon was.

Dean had always been rubbish at the Latin stuff. Dad had been replaced by Sam and the older Winchester brother had never made the time to figure out the language for himself properly. How he cursed his idleness now! What he would give for the ability to think of a single useful incantation of his own at this point in time. Dean wracked his brains to remember the beginning of several verses Sam had recited to banish demons in recent months but not a single one of them would stick. The ever reliable 'Cristo' was all he had left.

Still reaching wildly for ancient languages that might protect him, Dean could sense the dark force coming closer. The basement seemed to take on an inky blackness that was impenetrable to human eyes. The door to the house did not open but a barely audible crackle hailed the arrival of a black mist, slowly taking form at the foot of the rickety staircase.

Dean narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the size of what he was up against. It came as no surprise to see the creature taking the same form as the young hunter had battled in the forest days earlier. It grew more solid and reached a considerable height, almost stooping to spread its mass in the confined space of the basement.

Dean shouted whatever appropriate banishing words came into his head but nothing worked. The creature approached and the hunter could feel its penetrating cold piercing his skin. Claw-like fingers stretched towards his chest but Dean was helpless, unable to escape its clutches. He tugged ferociously at the chains, desperation driving him on, but his efforts were futile.

"Get away from me, you son of a bitch!" he yelled as dark claws sunk into his chest. Dean could feel the evil like ice in his veins. It sought out every square inch of warmth and humanity, leeching it from him without mercy. Dean gritted his teeth, trying hard to suppress the scream swelling in his throat but, in the end, there was nothing he could do. He screamed as loudly as his ailing body would allow. He screamed for the pain he was feeling as he was fed upon, for his own helplessness, for the brother he couldn't help, for the fact that he was going to leave Sam alone in the world. Somewhere within the recess of his frozen mind, Dean could hear the sound of Ridley's voice, fearful but strong, rising above the sound of Dean's blood rushing in his own ears. By the time Ridley had succeeded in calling the creature from his dinner, Dean was slumped lifelessly against the wall, all his fight gone.

* * *

Bobby had prepared himself for a long wait and plenty of red tape to be circumnavigated before he would be allowed to see Alan Naughton at the Whitehorse Psychiatric Unit. Although, with the aid of an extremely useful tech contact, the hunter had already managed to pull up a reasonable amount of information on the patient. When first apprehended, Naughton had swung wildly between long periods of coherency followed by short bursts of manic behaviour when he violently attacked staff, clawed at the walls and declared that he needed to be released.

Most of the transcripts during interviews with the patient made little sense to Bobby except one particular line. Naughton had explained quite rationally that he needed to feed the demon inside him. This mode of thought fitted in perfectly with the hunter's experience of certain demon possessions. The entity invariably had focus and purpose, either needing to satiate a desire for killing or an equally obsessive need to preserve itself by replenishing the energy it slowly lost in the mortal world.

Aside from these unsettling declarations, there was the undeniable forensic evidence involving him in the murders that marked Alan Naughton as a threat to society. Unfortunately, the authorities held no regard for matters of the supernatural and marked the poor man out for ECT. From the notes Bobby's friend had dug up, it appeared that he had undergone electroconvulsive therapy on no less than three occasions. The reasons cited ranged from suspected schizophrenia, mood disorders with psychotic features to just plain old lack of response to traditional pharmacotherapy.

Bobby couldn't help the pang of sympathy he felt for Naughton. If there was one thing he had learned to accept in his business, it was that most humans were essentially good. They were mere pawns in a game which travelled beyond their own dimension. The old hunter had seen Meg's exorcism and vividly recalled the broken, dying girl it had held hostage all that time. He remembered how helpless Sam had been against the very same demon controlling him, forcing him to hurt the person he loved the most in the world. Naughton was just another in a long line of victims, his body violated and his brain damaged in the name of science when religion was what those doctors needed.

On a more clinical note, Bobby was fascinated by what electroconvulsive therapy might do to a demon inhabiting someone's body. Whatever it did to Alan Naughton's brain, it seemed to have cleared him of the possession. The creature was still out there somewhere, Sam and the other hapless victims were sad proof of that, but the doctor's notes implied that Naughton was not responsible for it any longer. Naughton's violent mood swings didn't subside, they ended abruptly, immediately after the third round of ECT. Yet, he still remained in the facility after more than a decade.

Finally, a stout female doctor, dark hair with aging silver streaks drawn back into a tight bun and bright, brown eyes, approached Bobby. "Mr. Henderson? Your credentials checked out on the system. You can see Mr. Naughton now."

"Excellent," Bobby smiled, always grateful when his cover worked out. Both Sam and Dean had inherited John's innate way of getting round the authorities even after his alias had been blown but Bobby lacked the charm and quick talking to get him out of a bind. He always seemed to end up being marched out of the building by burly guards. Today, however, he had worked hard to set a solid trail behind his alias. Dean's life depended on him getting it right.

"There are a few things you ought to know before you go in," the doctor continued. "Mr. Naughton is no longer a high security risk and he has a private room. A guard will be placed at the door. You are not to close the door at any time. Take a seat at the table and do not move until you wish to leave."

Bobby nodded, concern for his own wellbeing creeping in. The doctor seemed to recognise the expression instantly. "I don't say this to scare you, Mr. Henderson. Ninety-nine percent of the time he behaves without incident and, to be honest, he hasn't had a visitor in a long time. We simply don't want a law suit on our hands. You understand?"

"Of course," Bobby replied. The doctor nodded curtly and jerked her head in the direction of the first set of locked doors. The hunter followed her through another set before stepping out into the STAIR ward. He had done a little research into the centre before arriving and was relieved to have been ushered in here. The STAIR ward was intended for patients with a history of interpersonal violence, but who were psychiatrically stable and able to participate in a cognitive education program. The unit provided a highly structured environment to assist patients in anger management, reasoned thinking and rational behaviour without risk to themselves or the broader community. To Bobby's mind this meant he was relatively safe to walk the corridors.

The hunter peered in through door windows, seeing a group therapy session in one, structured activities in another and finally on to a small group of patients relaxing in the common living area. It was here that Alan Naughton could be found. He was a unassuming, short man, no more than five foot five, looking much older than his forty-three years. His face was pale and his eyes sunken, grey stubble peppering his sagging jaw line. It almost looked as if the life had been bleached out of him, his skin was papery and sallow, his hair already whitening and his wide, blue eyes were watery.

As the doctor called him over, Naughton looked directly at Bobby with a mixture of suspicion and interest. He nodded and muttered something before following her lead to his own room across the hall. Bobby followed, the security guy close behind. The doctor seated her patient at the small table and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly as she whispered a few more words in his ear. Pulling herself upright, she turned to Bobby. "Don't tire him out, Mr. Henderson."

Once alone, aside from the guard, Bobby slid into the seat opposite Naughton. "Hi, my name is Mr. Henderson."

"Yes," came the disinterested reply.

Bobby knew the questions he wanted answering but suddenly he found himself unsure of how to proceed. "I, uh, I just wanted to ask you a few questions really."

"I've told my story a thousand times…and you reporters twist it the same way every time I open my mouth." Naughton's blue eyes challenged Bobby, the sagging flesh beneath them only serving to make him an even more pitiable a figure. "So why don't you just make it up and leave me alone."

"I'm not here to turn you into a monster. I want to know the truth…the real truth," Bobby urged.

For a second he saw a glimmer of shock in the watery depths before Naughton pulled away and narrowed his eyes in the bright sunlight of the window. "You know, I used to hear them. They would drive out here in all weather, make banners and signs, chant and bay for my blood." He clasped his hands, knuckles whitening with the pressure. "You people come and go, write your words, your lies…but you forget that I'm still here. I still hear those voices in my head."

With a sudden jerk, Naughton rounded on Bobby again, tension etched on his pale face. The hunter could feel his own discomfort growing, a thread of fear as to what might rile someone kept confined in a nuthouse running through his mind. "Really, Mr. Naughton, I think I understand…"

Naughton scoffed, "Understand?! How could you?" He leaned forwards across the table until the hunter could feel his breath against his skin. "How could you possibly understand what it is like to be possessed by something with the power to tear a man to shreds? To be helpless to stop it? Only able to watch them die."

"I do understand. I understand possession." Bobby waited for his words to filter through the anguished man's brain, waited for those watery blue eyes to register understanding. Finally, he got it.

"You do?" The tremor in Naughton's voice was barely audible but Bobby could see his belief hanging by a thread.

"I have hunted them, these demons. I am hunting one now." The hunter knew only too well how risky it was to tell anyone about what he did but this was an extreme situation and, with the patient declared insane already, he had the whole medical profession on side. "I need your help. I need to find it and destroy it."

Naughton shook his head, his hands clenching and unclenching between them on the table before reaching to clutch at his own head. "No, no, no, no. It is too strong, too strong to control. You don't know the things it made me do! The things it made me see!"

Bobby pressed on, trying to draw the man back into rational conversation. "Can you remember when it started, how the creature got inside you?" He knew it was a long shot; most people's memories of the hours leading up to their possession were little more than a fuzzy blur. So Bobby wasn't surprised when Naughton shook his head.

"I have gone through it over and over, over and over in my head but the pieces never fit together. I can't…make…them…fit!" Each word was punctuated with a harsh hit to his own head with his fists.

Bobby reached forwards and gripped Naughton's hands, terrified that the guard would draw a close to their conversation. "Hey, hey, hey, calm down. I want to help but you've got to stay focused. I need you to stay focused and tell me everything you remember."

Naughton twisted his hands in Bobby's grip and tightened his fingers around the hunter's wrist. "You really know, don't you? You really understand what has happened to me. I never thought…" His eyes were welling with tears and Bobby could think of nothing else to do beyond continued reassurance. At last, Naughton seemed to regain his composure. He jumped up from the chair and rummaged in a drawer beside his bed, drawing suspicious looks from the security man.

Moments later, the patient slammed a piece of crumpled paper down on the table in front of Bobby. "There! He was in me but I knew, I knew what he looked like!" The hunter stared down at the rough pencil drawing, thick black lines shooting erratically out from all angles as if the picture had been completed in a wild frenzy. It was wraith-like, the eyes exaggerated as in a cartoon with red irises. The menace was undeniable, the very essence of evil almost leaping off the page. Claw-like fingers stretched out in search of prey and Naughton had completed the image by drawing a victim at the creature's feet, its chest bare and carved just as the police had found them, just as Sam's chest was.

Bobby talked with Naughton for as long as he could, trying to direct the near hysterical man's thoughts towards information that he might find valuable, but with each passing minute, the hunter came closer to accepting that Naughton was no expert. He was just another hapless victim of evil, no better informed for looking into the eyes of Hell. By the time the doctor returned, Bobby had managed to purloin the picture and was ready to leave. It was a disappointment that had brought him no closer to a lead for finding Dean. It was back to the drawing board.

* * *

Ellen paced from window to door of Sam's hospital room for the twentieth time that hour, trying to stretch out the dull ache in her leg muscles. She looked longingly out at the grass between the tall, grey buildings, wishing she could just breathe a little fresh air. Turning back to Sam, his hand draped limply where she had positioned it minutes earlier, his face turned gently towards where she stood beside the window, Ellen knew she wouldn't be in any other place. The young Winchester's brief awakening earlier that day had given her such relief and there was no way she would miss seeing those warm, hazel eyes open again.

Since she had alerted the nurse, Dr. Clancy had been in to run some basic checks on his patient's pupils and pulse. He seemed pleased but distracted and Ellen had to admit she was relieved when he left. The doctor's little heart-to-heart with her had been extremely useful but, in its wake, she did not feel comfortable discussing the matter further. Like most hunters, Ellen steered well clear of talking about the supernatural with anyone outside of the hunter circle. It expended too much energy in guarded words and tongue-biting. From the quick glance she had shared with Dr. Clancy though, it appeared he was feeling some embarrassment about raising the issue of the killings in the first place. He was doing an extremely good job of returning to his professional medical role and offered Ellen a few words of impartial encouragement before mumbling something about rounds to do.

After his disappearance, Ellen had watched a succession of nurses drift in and out, each shift bringing a new face that eventually blended into one homogenous female form. She didn't need their expertise to see that Sam was drifting somewhere below the surface of consciousness, building up the strength to return to the harsh brutality of the real world. Whether out of concern for Sam or her own cowardice, Ellen let him be. She no longer sat beside his bed squeezing his pliant hand or urged him to come back to her. There was no doubt in her mind that Sam was in there and physically okay. Now that the worst was over, part of Ellen wanted to stall that awakening, delay the hurt she would be forced to elicit as soon as Dean's name passed the young Winchester's lips.

"Pull yourself together woman!" she chided herself, striding back to the bedside. Mustering up all her battle strength, Ellen took a deep breath and settled at Sam's side once more. There was no point trying to drag this out. Sam needed to get well and get out of this bed, and Ellen knew she was in a position to help him make that journey.

At first, she rambled idly, her repertoire of amusing or gore-free stories rapidly running dry. Then, as her mind turned to what Bobby might have uncovered, Ellen began to regale the silent patient with the current situation so far. The first twitch was little more than a muscle reflex in Sam's fingers but it still caught Ellen's attention. She leaned forward and brushed her fingers tenderly through the boy's hair, whispering coaxing words and calling his name. Returning to her point in the timeline of events, it was another five minutes or so before the next twitch came. This time it tightened into a weak grip around her hand and Ellen squeezed back, her heart suddenly in her mouth. "Sam? Can you hear me, honey?" she called.

Sam's eyes shifted sluggishly beneath closed lids but his fingers remained wrapped around Ellen's like she was his lifeline. "Come on, Sam. You can do it, just open your eyes for me." The monitors picked up the pace a little as the young Winchester fought his way from the murky depths. At last, his eyes opened and Sam blinked wearily. Ellen moved into his line of sight as she continued talking to him, determined to make eye contact. After a moment, she got it. At first, Sam just stared at her without recognition or emotion as he tried to make sense of everything around him.

The world was a bright blur to Sam and he struggled to make sense of which way was up. Was he standing up or lying down? There was a moving blob directly in front of his face but a glaring light behind it made it difficult to decipher. Gradually, his brain connected the dots. The blob was definitely a person, a person who was talking. Was she talking to him? He wanted to reply but the young hunter couldn't seem to co-ordinate his body anymore. Was he paralysed? Sam tried to suppress the panic rapidly rising inside him. He needed to know what was going on. Summoning up what little strength he had, he tried to speak. To his horror, all he succeeded in achieving was a dry, wheezing sound that quickly descended into a choking cough. Sam attempted to suck in a deep breath but no air would come. The panic he had tried to keep at bay broke through the barriers of restraint and the young Winchester found himself gagging helplessly against a hard obstruction in his throat.

The blob above him burst into stark clarity and he could see that it was a familiar face. She was telling him to calm down but her face betrayed her. Sam could easily read the panic etched on her face and he could feel how her fingers tightened in his. He was dying…he couldn't breathe….

Ellen reached above Sam's head and pressed the red call button, her other hand never losing contact with the panicked boy. She watched helplessly as his pale, drawn face morphed into one of sheer terror and his colouring ranged from white to crimson to purple before making a terrifying descent into blue. "Somebody get me some help in here!" she yelled. Turning back to Sam, she brought his hand up to her face and kissed his fingers, her eyes never leaving his. "Sam, it's okay. Just let the machine breathe for you. Relax."

Dr. Clancy bustled in, his stethoscope already halfway off his neck. He leaned over Sam, forcing Ellen out of the way but she refused to relinquish her charge's hand. "Sam, I'm your doctor. Just relax, okay. You have a tube down your throat to help you breathe. I know it's a bit uncomfortable but it will help you. Relax." He pressed his stethoscope to the young man's chest. When Sam's attempts at controlling the urge to try and breathe failed, Clancy turned to the nurse. "We need to calm him down…"

Ellen knew that anything they would do to calm Sam now would involve more sedating drugs and she was damned if she was going to spend another day in that hard bucket chair watching and praying for the Winchester to wake up. "No, please, just give him a minute. Let me help him." Dr. Clancy gave her a hard look before stepping graciously back from the bed and allowing Ellen to move back into Sam's eye line. "Hey, Sam, nod if you can hear me."

A tear trailed down Sam's face as his eyes pleaded for her to make the pain stop but he managed a feeble nod. Ellen wiped the tear away and pressed her palm to his grazed cheek. "I want you to look at me. Look at me, Sam." The ailing boy's hazel eyes shimmered with unshed tears and it almost made Ellen flinch to see the hollow agony reflected in their depths as he looked straight at her. "Okay, that's good. Now I want you to concentrate on me, just relax and focus on me. I'm telling you that everything is okay, just let the machine do the work for you and you'll feel much better." Slowly, Sam's choking subsided as he followed Ellen's instructions. The choking subsided into a wheeze and his coloration returned to its former paleness. "That's it, that's it," Ellen assured. "I'm right here, Sam, I'm not going anywhere."

She looked up at Dr. Clancy for approval. He nodded and said, "We'll check him over and then see about taking him off the respirator. His lungs have been given a good rest and it's a good sign that he's trying to breathe on his own now."

"Thank you," Ellen said. She brushed a hand through Sam's hair, "You hear that, Sam? We're going to get you off this thing."

Sam looked at her and her heart plummeted when she read the question forming behind those tired eyes. It was the question she had been dreading since the moment she got here and the one she was finally going to have to face, once and for all.

END OF PART 11

I know I've been slack at updating but nothing is better nourishment for the muse than a review! Even just a little teensy one! Please! Dean fans, there's plenty of whump coming to him & Sam fans, it's not over yet!!


	12. No Assist

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : See, I can do it! I can put out another chapter within a month of the last one! A HUUUUUUUUUUUUGE thank you as always to my fantastic reviewers & even the lurkers who have put the story on alert but haven't reviewed!! I'm so glad you're enjoying the torture, ahem, I mean adventures of our fine Winchester brothers. I have tried to make my gratitude known with personal responses to anyone who is signed in. But to those I can't reach thank you from the bottom of my twisted heart! Shannon – your words were so kind & supportive & the cherries were extremely welcome! Thanks for hanging in there through the Dean bits! Me & Kris – Sorry for making you spill your coffee (if it were our boys we'd probably give them third degree burns & a hospital stay!) but I'm thrilled that my update had such positive impact for the New Year!

On a technical note, as usual the flawed medical knowledge is sadly only attributable to me & my humble internet searches. I hope it is acceptable even if it isn't perfect.

Also, a plea for help! If anyone knows what happens to all your reviews if you replace a chapter, could you PM me? I really want to know if I'm going to lose any if I tinker with the formatting on some of my old ones. Thank you.

PART 12 : NO ASSIST

Ellen had been kept at arm's length during Dr. Clancy's examination of Sam and the young hunter had responded compliantly to everything he was asked to do. Clancy explained that, although Sam was very weak and frail, he seemed strong enough to be weaned off the machine, especially given how much distress the machine was causing him. Finally, he was ready for the extubation but the desperate look he cast in Ellen's direction told her he was still struggling not to panic. She moved to his bedside, sending a no-nonsense glare towards the nurse who was ready to usher her away again.

She held Sam's hand as Clancy explained what he should expect after the ventilator had been removed. "Sam, you're going to need to learn some special exercises and keep practising them every day. You haven't been on the ventilator for too long but your lungs will still be weak. The exercises will strengthen the muscles of the neck, chest and diaphragm. The nurse will show you when we have removed the tube. Okay?"

Sam nodded calmly but his eyes betrayed him. Ellen could tell he would nod blindly at whatever the doctor said just to be able to breathe on his own again, to speak again. If the doctor realised this, he didn't draw attention to it. Clancy continued, "Now, first I'm going to give you a few moments on the 'no assist' setting. If your lungs are strong enough, you should be able to breathe on your own. If you find yourself panicking or struggling, just squeeze your aunt's hand. Can you do that, Sam?"

The young Winchester nodded again, his eyes wide with fear. As much as he wanted the tube out, he hadn't considered what would happen if his body wasn't ready to cope. Right now though, he had no choice. He needed to know what was going on and find out where the hell Dean was. Why wasn't he here? Still adjusting to the conscious world, the hunter's thoughts tumbled over one another and fought for space in his brain until they just jumbled together incoherently.

"The nurse has suction at the ready to relieve you of any secretions that might block your ability to breathe. Are you ready, Sam?" Sam nodded, then Clancy turned to Ellen. "Try to keep him as calm as possible."

Ellen smoothed his floppy hair from his face. "It's okay, sugar. You're doing great. I'm right here." She squeezed his hand. As the doctor pressed buttons on the ventilator equipment, the hiss and whoosh slowed and stopped, suddenly bringing the silence of the room into stark pronouncement. Ellen watched Sam's face for signs of distress. At first, he wouldn't look at her, his eyes fixed on a space somewhere on the wall past her head. She could sense him trying to gauge what his body could do and his chest hitched awkwardly as he drew in faltering breaths. He winced and Ellen knew from personal experience what a broken rib felt like to breathe through, even after several days of healing time.

The moments passed in tense silence while Dr. Clancy assessed Sam's condition and the young hunter tried his hardest not to let on how much the sudden flurry of activity was tiring him. The doctor warmed his stethoscope and held it against Sam's back and demanded several deep breaths but Ellen could hear how each successive breath weakened a little. She feared his muscles were still too weak but one look at Sam's face told her that he was simply exhausted.

She told Dr. Clancy and, fortunately, he agreed. "Are you ready for the next step, young man?" Sam nodded, pleading brown eyes peering up from shadowed sockets. The doctor motioned to the nurse to be at the ready with the suction. He instructed the young man to take a deep breath and exhale for as long and hard as possible when he removed the tube. Sam's fingers tightened around Ellen's hand as he gagged against the hard plastic obstructing his trachea and she leaned forward, whispering soothing words and stroking his hair. His face blossomed into pink and crimson before the tube came free, the nurse suctioned, and his pallid skin tone returned. Still, his hand gripped Ellen's as his breaths came in heaving gasps, uncertain and erratic.

Throughout his ordeal, Ellen had not seen Sam so vulnerable and in need of reassurance since he was a child passing through the Roadhouse with John years before. It made her feel sick to think how much more vulnerable he would be when she broke the news of Dean's disappearance. An overwhelming maternal desire to protect him tore through her and Ellen found herself grasping Sam's hand as tightly as he reciprocated.

Several wet coughs later, Sam's breathing subsided into a more acceptable, regular pattern even though Ellen could still hear the rasp in his chest. She smiled, "You did good, Sam. You feeling okay?" He managed another feeble nod but his eyelids were already drooping. "Hey, you've got to stay awake a little longer. Can you do that for me? The nurse is going to show you those exercises now." Sam's eyes drifted unsteadily over Ellen's face, the fatigue and lingering confusion surfacing as his strength was slowly sapped.

Dr. Clancy did one final check over and left the pair of hunters in the capable hands of an extremely efficient nurse. She showed Sam the exercises and made sure he could carry them out on his own. Turning to Ellen, she said, "He's tired. I'm going to let him rest but he needs to practise again in an hour or so. I'll come and check on him then." She wheeled the ventilator away from the bed but Ellen noticed, with concern, that it remained within arm's reach. She prayed that the poor kid wouldn't have need of it again.

Sam's head flopped back on the pillow, every ounce of remaining energy visibly drained from him. His eyes slid shut almost immediately and his grip relaxed sleepily in Ellen's hand but she did not relinquish it. Instead, she talked quietly with soothing words of reassurance until she was convinced the exhausted young man was asleep.

It came as a surprise when Sam spoke, his voice nothing more than a strangled whispering sound at first that sent him into a coughing fit. Ellen supported him as she brought the cup of ice chips to his lips. After a moment or two, his breathing relaxed once more and Sam's head sank heavily back against the pillow. "Wh…where's Dean?"

So there it was. The big question, no longer a dreaded moment played out over and over in Ellen's imagination. It had broken free of the confines of her mind and burst into undeniable reality, demanding to be answered. Ellen felt under-rehearsed, suddenly unable to find the words she had intended to say. She opened her mouth to speak but the worry reflected in Sam's eyes threw her off guard. "Honey, Dean's…"

Sam's eyes widened, all fatigue thrown aside as he pushed himself up a little on the bed. "Ellen? Where's Dean?" His strained voice cracked at his brother's name, out of soreness, anguish or both.

"Honey, Sam, you've got to stay calm. Just lie back." She pressed trembling hands against his chest, easily forcing him back against the mattress. "Let me explain."

"Is….is he alive?" Sam asked, the words barely rising above a whisper, afraid of hearing their own answer.

"The truth is, we don't know. The thing you were hunting, it got to him. Ever since you were brought in, Bobby's been following every scrap of information he could get his hands on, trying to find a lead. Sam, I'm so sorry."

"Don't say that," Sam blurted out, his breathing sounding increasingly laboured. "Don't talk like he's gone….He can't be."

"We're still hopeful, Bobby is interviewing a key lead as we speak. He'll be back soon." Ellen tried to sound cheerful and positive but the act she had held up so well with Bobby seemed to crack under closer scrutiny.

"How…how long?" Sam asked.

"You were brought in nearly four days ago. Dean wasn't at your camp by the time Bobby got there." Ellen tried to think of a way to make their position sound a little more positive but there was little she could say. Sam was a big boy, he couldn't have the wool pulled over his eyes any longer. Besides, if they were really going to find Dean, they needed as many hunters on the case as possible. If anyone could get inside Dean's head, it was Sam.

Sam's face lost its edge of childlike vulnerability and hardened into an unswayable steeliness. His eyes lingered on Ellen's for a second or two, their dark depths challenging and tinged with something resembling bitterness. Did he blame her for Dean's disappearance? Ellen knew it couldn't be true, Sam wasn't so irrational, but she understood what lay at the root of it. "Sam, you can't blame yourself for this, or anyone else for that matter."

"Can't I?" he said sharply. "If it weren't for me, we would have been out of that forest that day."

Ellen couldn't withhold the frustration in her voice, an outpouring of everything she had kept bottled up over the past few days. "So it's your fault that the plane crashed?! Your fault that you were thrown around like a rag doll with internal injuries? Sam, I know you're angry and upset…"

"How can you know? You've got Jo, you're not…alone." The last word was a strangled whisper, caught on a breath as if Sam couldn't quite stop himself uttering it even when he didn't want Ellen's comfort.

Not a woman of sentiment, Ellen couldn't bring herself to utter the empty platitudes she knew would be pointless. Sam was right. If Dean was truly lost, the younger Winchester's world would crumble down around him. He had lost more than any of them, his own role tightly interwoven with each of their fates. Jess was dead because Sam hadn't followed the path the demon had marked out. John had given his life for Dean's because Sam had refused to kill the demon when he had the chance and now Dean would be gone. Sam had already connected the dots to make it clear he considered himself to blame for that, too.

Still, Ellen wasn't about to let him slide down the slippery slope of depression and self-loathing. "Don't you talk like that, Sam Winchester. Dean is out there somewhere and he needs your help. Bobby and I need your help. But we've got a lot of work to do so you've got to focus on getting healthy and useful. You hear me?" Her voice was firm and commanding but inside Ellen was shaking with fear that Sam would turn his back on her, give up once and for all.

For a long moment, Sam was silent, his jaw clenched tightly as he struggled to gain control of his ranging emotions. He wanted to believe that his brother was alive more than anything, but the odds were against him. The other victims had stood no chance, there was not even evidence of a struggle…but then the other victims weren't hunters. Sam tried to rationalise but he just felt useless, helpless, guilty.

It was into this miserable, quiet scene that Bobby stepped. He hadn't expected to see Sam awake and the expression on his face was enough to bring a little warmth back into Ellen's heart. His bearded face wrinkled with delight, the broadest of smiles spreading from cheek to cheek. "My God! Sam! You're awake!"

Even Sam mustered up his first smile. "Hey Bobby, it's good to see you."

"Right back at you!" Bobby advanced towards the bed, casting a quick smile of relief in Ellen's direction. From the strained expression on her face, he was under no illusion as to whether she had broken the news. He bent to give the young man an awkward hug, whether it was just due to the strange angle or the strangeness of the situation was unclear. It was just good to see a little happiness in the room, even if it was only momentary. "How are you feeling?"

In all honesty, the young hunter felt pretty crap. His throat felt like someone had rubbed it thoroughly with a cheese grater, every breath sent sharp pains zigzagging across his chest and, despite the pain medication, his spine ached to the point of distraction. However, Sam shrugged the question off. "I'll live. Where were you?" he asked, quickly diverting attention away from himself. More than anything, he wanted to know what Bobby had uncovered and all the information they had that would lead them to his brother.

Bobby darted a wary look at Ellen once more but Sam caught it instantly. "You didn't find anything, did you?"

"I went to a psychiatric facility in Whitehorse." Seeing Sam's puzzled face, the grizzled hunter explained. "A man I think was possessed by this creature has been locked up there since the last set of killings. I was hoping he'd give us some information about its habits or location, I don't know, just something useful, but he couldn't remember anything." With that, he tossed Alan Naughton's file onto the table beside Sam's bed.

The young hunter quickly picked it up and perused the contents, methodically and carefully at first but then with increasing speed and dismissal until he flung it irritably back on the bed. If the truth be known, the adrenaline surge was wearing off and he was starting to feel drowsy. He let his head drop wearily back against the pillow.

Ellen pulled the blankets up around him and ran a gentle hand down the side of his face. "You should get some rest, honey."

"No," Sam blurted out, guilt plaguing him that he could even think of sleep when Dean was out there alone somewhere, in need of help. "Dean…"

"Sssh," Ellen murmured. "Don't fight it. We'll keep searching. All this will be here when you wake up." She wished it didn't have to be, that she could make all the hurt go away, conjure Dean to his brother's bedside, but that was for a day when wishes were horses. She watched as Sam fought his body's urges, his eyelids drooping only for him to drive them open once more. His mouth moved in inaudible murmurs but Ellen didn't need to hear them with her ears to know the sentiments they expressed. When Sam's eyes opened again, they were glazed and unfocused until finally his lashes swept closed and rested.

Finding some comfort in being at his side, Ellen continued running her fingertips gently through Sam's hair. She was content to watch him find a little peace, even if it was just for a short while.

* * *

The world would be a cold, unwelcoming place when Dean Winchester came round. Were he conscious of his surroundings, he would have been surprised that he was still alive. A defenceless attack from a demon should have spelt out death at worst or possession at best, yet the elder Winchester had suffered neither. Clearly, life still had a few more chuckles to send his way.

All this should have gone through Dean's head but, for now, he was incapable of coherent thought. Instead, he simply lay on the grubby mattress down in a chilly cellar for interminable hours, possessing neither the will to move or even open his eyes. His flesh felt heavy on his bones, crushing him beneath his own weight. The hunter's chest burned and his heart thudded dully in his ears, the blood strangled through its ventricles like there was a fist squeezing the organ tight. Had he even an ounce of energy, Dean would have felt some fear for his own life. His body was hanging on by a thread to life, each breath an inefficient trail of oxygen barely circulating his starved brain. Were someone to stand over him with an axe in their hand ready to finish him off, he would have been unable to even raise a finger in defence of himself. Dean was at the mercy of whoever or whatever wanted to take him.

Unbeknownst to the young hunter, an old man sat beside the mattress on a stool. Ridley had lugged down a small wood burning stove, which he had erected beside him. Dean's right arm dangled loosely across his knee as he worked at the metal cuff around his wrist. The skin beneath was bloody and raw from constant chafing and Dean's futile attempts at escape. Ridley felt a contradictory mixture of relief and sorrow at the day's events. It pleased him that he had been successful in controlling and placating the demon that haunted his days and nights. Yet, the humanitarian that still resided deep within him looked down at his broken victim with pangs of regret.

The irony of Ridley's role in Dean's life was not lost on the old man. He had brought him back from the brink of death, restored him to life and seen the fiery passion in those green eyes only to send him back to the jaws of death. The young man had been so vital, bashing away at his chains day in, day out, refusing to give in to captivity. It had been heartening to know what a strong offering Ridley was presenting to the demon. But now that offering was damaged… but perhaps not beyond repair. Ridley looked down at the pale face, closed eyes in hollowed sockets, parched lips parted as the laboured pants of breath slid past them. For hours, the young hunter had not stirred, not so much as a twitch had given any indication of his consciousness.

In the end, Ridley had relented and decided to remove the manacles. The chances of his ward making a sudden recovery were beyond slim and the old man needed to tend to him more thoroughly. Ropes would bind him just as well if he forced Dean's hands behind his back. There would be plenty of time to secure him for the next call. For now, he needed to make sure the offering recovered his strength adequately to pacify the demon at his next feed.

Ridley's aged fingers forced thick leather wadding between Dean's wrist and the manacle. From there, he used a small saw to make a deep score in the iron. Next, he took a blow torch and, making sure the young man's flesh was suitably covered, Ridley heated the metal to a glow and worked the manacle seam apart. The job was tiresome and time consuming, made even more difficult in the dim glow of his gas lamp. Finally, he could pull the chain away using his thick gloves and it dropped to the floor with a loud clatter. He lifted the hunter's hand in his own, examining the torn flesh. Green tinged the edge of the cuts where the old metal had leaked its poisons and Ridley reminded himself to treat the wounds thoroughly once he had finished this task. Throughout, Dean did not stir. The only proof of his connection with the living was the audible inhalation of each rough breath.

As he prepared to remove the left manacle, Ridley contemplated whether to move himself and all his tools to the other side of the mattress or attempt to move Dean's body into a more compliant position. In the end, he opted for the former. His greatest fear was that the demon had done more harm to the poor boy than was evident from the outside. If he moved him, Ridley couldn't be sure he would survive. It took several minutes for him to rearrange his stool, light and tools around the other side of Dean's mattress. Then, Ridley wasted no time in lifting the unconscious man's left arm, securing it across his knee and repeating the same, methodical removal.

Finally, both manacles were safely removed and Ridley was pleased to see that his aged clumsiness had not resulted in burns to the either his own or his charge's skin. He went up to the house in search of his medical kit and returned with it about ten minutes later. Despite Dean's condition, it still surprised the old man to see him lying just as he had been left, oblivious to the window to freedom he had just missed.

Once more, Ridley took up his place on the stool and lifted Dean's right arm. He swabbed the circular flesh wound with antiseptic wipes, gently debriding it before wrapping padded gauze and a bandage over the top. Satisfied with his job, Ridley moved onto Dean's left wrist. Once the bandaging was complete, Ridley leaned forward and rested an ear to the young man's chest. He could hear bubbling breaths, like the kid had been breathing water. Beneath that, his heart thumped like a drum beat, lost in a rhythm all of its own. The old man pulled the blankets up to the hunter's chin, feeling the slight tremors of cold coursing through the boy's body. Ridley wondered if he should try and move Dean upstairs into the main house but quickly thought better of it. He didn't have the strength to carry the dead weight up the rickety staircase. Plus, he didn't want any unlikely visitors to stumble across a body in his house, nor did he want the demon any closer than he had to be. No, the basement would have to do. Convinced by his own argument, Ridley heaped more blankets on the kid.

A little suspicious, but generally convinced that Dean wasn't in any shape to move, Ridley left the basement and set about making a hearty broth and drawing fresh water from the river. No running water and central heating was a small price to pay for the seclusion the old man enjoyed. He was pleased with the broth he had managed to produce with various bits in the kitchen and he tasted it with relish. After eating his own share and enjoying a hot cup of coffee, he decided to go back and check on his prisoner. It had been a couple of hours since he had left him and, aside from wanting the reassurance that he really hadn't escaped, Ridley wanted to be equally sure that he hadn't died either.

A gust of cool air made him shiver as he opened the basement door and stepped down the rickety staircase. The broth slopped on the tray he carried but Ridley made it down in one piece. As he expected, Dean had not stirred even an inch, his hands laid gently across his chest where Ridley had arranged them earlier. Were it not the noisy rise and fall of his chest, it would be easy to imagine him dead. In the sickly glow of the lamp, the young man's cheekbones were cast into sharp prominence and the shadows spreading around his eyes gave him a gaunt, cadaverous appearance.

As the old man approached the mattress, he could see that Dean was shivering in spite of the many layers of blankets covering his ailing body. Ridley hoped his hot broth would warm the kid up a little and he knelt down on arthritic knees beside him, appreciating the warmth of the small stove against his back. Removing some of the blankets, he bunched them into a makeshift pillow against the stone wall and reached under Dean's armpits. With a grunt of effort, Ridley managed to lever the boy's shoulders off the mattress, his head lolling awkwardly backwards. The old man tilted Dean forwards while he bolstered the blankets, allowing his head to flop forwards against his chest. Finally, he had the unconscious lad propped up adequately for Ridley to feed him without risk of choking him to death.

For the first few minutes, the broth went unswallowed. Dean's lips were pliant but unresponsive and, even though the spoon easily passed into his mouth, there was nothing Ridley could do to make him take the food. He tried everything he could think of. At first, he tried talking to the kid in a desperate attempt to elicit even the unconscious act of a swallowing reflex. Dean did not stir, not even a flutter of an eyelid could give Ridley hope of success. In the end, the old man resorted to physically massaging the hunter's throat as he poured the broth into his mouth.

At first, the hot liquid spilled from the unconscious boy's lips and Ridley had to clean up the mess. Then, with a loud splutter, Dean began coughing. His eyes did not open immediately as his body simply tried to fight for breath when the broth went down the wrong way. The coughs were violent and they wracked his entire frame, his brow furrowed in pain. Ridley tried to reassure him with comforting words but he couldn't suppress his anxiety now that his victim was awake. He would have to keep his guard up. Slowly, the coughing subsided and Dean's eyes opened listlessly. He didn't seem aware of his captor's presence at first and his green eyes moved lethargically over the wall directly ahead of him.

When Ridley spoke, the muscles in Dean's body seemed to physically recoil. He turned his head towards the voice but his skull felt like a ball of lead attached to his neck. Part of his addled brain wanted to speak but his body would not acquiesce and in the end he was content to let Ridley feed him. In truth, he didn't have the strength to fight it. The warm broth slid down his throat, heating a palpable path through his body and into his stomach.

At first, Ridley tried to make a little light conversation about the new furniture for the basement - the stove and gas lamp. But no chatter could obliterate the accusing stare of the weakened young man beside him. With each mouthful, Dean's eyes bored a little deeper into the old man, asking why he was doing this to him. The broth seemed to slowly recover a fragment of his strength and finally the hunter pulled away from the spoon. "Enough?" Ridley asked, Dean's body language answering the question for him. Dean's accusing glare followed his every move and the old man found himself desperate to find a reason to escape the room. It wouldn't be long before the kid regained enough strength to put up a decent fight so he mumbled something about washing dishes and letting Dean rest. He stood up and headed towards the stairs, his mind already on the ropes that lay on the kitchen table beyond.

He had taken no more than a few steps before his prisoner's voice sailed after him, its tones jumbled with sadness, vulnerability but a few drops of anger. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Ridley felt something break inside him. He had killed many a man in the name of serving the demon before but those deaths had been loud and messy. The old man had not been forced to answer the questions that held a mirror to his actions. "I didn't have a choice. It's the only way to stop other innocent people from dying." It sounded like a feeble excuse but it was all he had to offer.

Dean's forehead creased into a frown of confusion and distaste. "How do you figure that?" Already he could feel his own anger and need for revenge fuelling him. As his conscious mind sharpened, the hunter's first thoughts went to how he had ended up so weak and then instantly shifted to Sam. He couldn't stand being away from his brother, knowing how much he needed him right now. It was sending him mad to sit here day after interminable day, unable to do anything to truly help himself or the person whom he loved above anyone else.

"It needs to feed. It would kill indiscriminately if I hadn't found a way to call it off. With this incantation I have devised, I can call it to feed from you then banish it before it kills you." Ridley wondered if he should have kept the truth to himself, but what could this kid do? There was no fighting a demon of this magnitude. One could only serve it and Dean would take his secret to the grave.

Dean felt sick to his stomach. "How long do you think that will last?"

Ridley licked his lips, uncertainly. "I don't know. You are a strong, healthy young man. Only time will tell. I am truly sorry."

The hunter's face contorted then softened as an idea came into his head. "Can't you destroy it?"

The old man shook his head fiercely. "I have tried everything, everything! I have searched every resource I could lay my hands on but nothing has brought fruit." He paused, his eyes lingering on Dean's drawn face, a flashing image of that same haunted, youthful face dead as the last of his vitality was sapped dry. "This is the only way."

Dean's eyes locked with Ridley's and the old man wondered if he saw the same image of himself reflected. Perhaps not. The young hunter persisted, "Listen, I know people, experts in this sort of thing. If you just let me go, we can find a way to bind it until we can kill it. Believe me, I won't run away from this! This is what I do!" As he finished, the last sentences came out in a flurry as he already saw the bitter resignation in Ridley's face. Desperation laced the young Winchester's voice but the old man would hear none of it.

"I can't. Don't ask me again." His wrinkled face took on a brittle tension and his eyes shone with fierce defiance. "You should get some rest." He turned his back on his prisoner, hearing his own heart thumping in his ears. He had to get those ropes and fast.

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Ellen and Bobby watched Sam run a gamut of emotions, from depression to obsession, sorrow to optimism. It only took a second out of the room in search of coffee to return and find the young Winchester's mood completely turned about. It was draining at worst but, at best, it gave Ellen something to focus on besides the dead ends her searches had produced.

Bobby had asked a close hunter friend to courier some key books and papers from his home. They had only arrived that morning, having suffered a long and arduous trip including hold-ups at the border. Such literature was hard to get past the law even when Bobby had spent a long time building up a reputable trail as a university scholar with occult specialities. To make up for lost time, he had returned immediately to his hotel to study them.

The old hunter had been positive about what he would find in one of the books and had regaled Sam with sketchy details of a wood sprite. Once the source was in his hand, he had been sure it would yield everything they needed to know to find Dean. Not one of the three hunters dared voice their optimism, their nerves too fragile to take another knock.

Dr. Clancy and his team of nurses had been keeping a close eye on Sam, commanding him to rest, but he insisted on having his laptop at his side whenever possible. Hour after hour would pass surfing the internet, logging onto occult message boards and Whitehorse centred documents. Ellen had already scanned the microfilms at the local library, double checking what Bobby had done in his shattered state days earlier. She had printed out anything she thought was relevant and handed it over to the young Winchester.

Sam was grateful for Ellen's support. He didn't want her fussing over him or stopping him from helping. Her only nag was when she decided he had worked too long and hard and needed rest. She was scarily good at reading the signs but Sam took an odd comfort in her mothering. He had never considered what he had missed out on since his mother's death, living constantly in a male sphere where emotions were locked away like an embarrassing secret. It was strange how quickly Sam found himself comfortable with her, especially given their chequered history. Ellen was the last woman he would have attributed a maternal instinct to, yet here she was, at his bedside day after day.

To the sturdy woman rifling through the printouts in her hand, she wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else. No matter what her feelings for John Winchester or the echo of his mannerisms that his boys had inherited that tugged at her heart, she saw the vulnerable orphans that they were. They were trying to do good, find their way in the world by saving innocent people even though their own lives were wrecks. For now though, she recognised the red-rimmed tiredness in Sam's eyes and the way his fingers flitted over the computer's mouse without focus. He needed to stop and take a break from staring at a screen. "Sam, come on. It's time to take a break."

"Just another minute," Sam replied, distractedly.

"That's what you said half an hour ago. Come on, just for a little while."

Sam caught her forceful glare, remembering the same expression in her eyes when they had first met, a shotgun levelled at his head. "Fine. Just let me bookmark the page." He felt Ellen's reproachful gaze on him as he did so and finally pushed the laptop away from him. "There. Satisfied?" he asked, suddenly wishing he could take back the harsh edge with which he had said the words. He knew she was only trying to help. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay," Ellen replied quickly. "Lie back, honey."

"I'm fine," Sam protested but Ellen was already lowering the bed head. Feeling the frustration cracking inside him, Sam snapped. "I can do it! Just leave it alone!" The ferocity in his voice surprised even himself. He waited for the remorse to come, for an apology to spring to his lips but none came. Instead, a further torrent of abuse took its place. "Leave _me_ alone!"

"Sam, calm down," Ellen reprimanded, her voice low and deadly.

But Sam couldn't stop himself now. "I'll calm down when everyone just leaves me the hell alone!"

Ellen floundered for words to stop the hunter spiralling out of control but she knew everything she could think of would only make Sam angrier. "Sam, you've got to be patient."

"I'm tired of being patient! I just want to be out of this damned bed! I need to be out of it! I need to find Dean!" He paused, his heart pounding like he had run a marathon. In a fit of emotion, he ignored the blooming pain in his lower spine and fumbled to try and remove the pelvic stabiliser that weighed heavily around his waist.

The moment she realised what she was doing, Ellen called for help. She was willing to stand in the water and take the waves of anger fired randomly her way, but she was damned if she would let Sam paralyse himself in the process. Two orderlies rushed into the room, easily forcing Sam's arms away from his body and pressing him down against the bed.

Dr. Clancy arrived shortly after. "Sam, I know it's difficult to remain still but if you don't let us make decisions about your welfare, I will be forced to restrain you. Do you understand?" He stared intently at the struggling Winchester, his gaze firm and unwavering. "Believe me, that is not a path you want to go down."

Sam's breathing slowed and he dropped his head back against the pillow, turning his face away from the doctor and Ellen, but he was unable to hide the unbidden tear that tracked its path down his flushed cheek. He felt stifled and he worried that he would go crazy if he had to stay in this place a day longer. Dean's face flashed through his mind and Sam tried hard to focus on what his brother would do in this situation. Sadly, his elder brother wasn't exactly a model patient either. He would have pulled his IVs out on the first day and been behind the wheel of his beloved Impala before the doctors had blinked. The image brought a smile to Sam's face and he found himself relaxing almost instantly.

Dr. Clancy remained at his bedside. "You'll be pleased to know that we have some good news for you, Sam." This caught the young patient's attention and Sam looked expectantly at the doctor.

"We're going to start your physical therapy sessions tomorrow, get these traction weights off. Good, huh?" Clancy pulled a patronising smile but Sam humoured him and smiled back. In truth, the news really did make him feel a whole lot better. Therapy meant he could get back on his feet again and that meant discharge from the hospital in the not too distant future. The doctor droned on with his usual cautionary words and Sam was only half listening to them. "Early ambulation is extremely important after any injury. I've scheduled you in for a radiograph later today but a healthy, young man such as yourself should be healing at a pretty good rate. If your scans confirm the stability of your pelvis, you'll be turning cartwheels before you know it." He smiled another cheesy grin at the young hunter and flashed another at Ellen who seemed about as uncomfortable with his joviality as Sam was.

Once Clancy was gone, the room was awkwardly silent for a moment or two before Ellen tried to patch it over. "That's good news. You need something to focus on right now…"

"Ellen," Sam interrupted, "I'm sorry. I know you're only trying to help. I just…" He stopped, lost for the words that fully explained the feelings churning around his insides.

Ellen's heart went out to him but she didn't know how to make it better. "It's okay. You don't need to explain, I get it."

Sam sighed wearily, "Still, I shouldn't have talked to you like that. After all you've done…you don't have to be here." He turned soft, brown eyes towards where Ellen sat. "You've got the Roadhouse to run, Jo. You don't need to clean up any more Winchester mess."

"Sam Winchester, I am here because I chose to be. We hunters have got to stick together and…" Ellen paused.

Sam waited for her to continue before finally prompting, "And what?"

"I can't forgive your father for…some things but, in spite of his mistakes, he raised two fine young men and he loved you boys more than anything. If our situations were reversed, I know he'd be there for Jo." Ellen's gaze left the middle distance and she looked directly at Sam. For the first time, he saw a glimmer of the hurt she had experienced in her own life.

Sam nodded, "Thank you." There was nothing more he could say and, if the truth be known, he was hoping she would shoot his argument down and stay. She helped him stay strong. She gave him support when he needed it most, sometimes no more than a touch or a smile, but it had the power to restore his faith, keep him tethered to the goodness in the world.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the exhaustion of the day settling along every limb. He would take a nap, just for a few minutes, and then he'd be right back on the case.

True to his word, Dr. Clancy returned a couple of hours later to take Sam for his radiograph. The young patient's nap had sunk into deep slumber and he had not stirred since his conversation with Ellen. Even the comings and goings of nurses could not rouse him, but the remaining monitors by his bed registered strong, steady beeps and Ellen was happy to let him rest.

She wished they didn't have to wake him. He looked eternally exhausted and the only time those frown lines left Sam's face was in the depth of sleep. She roused him as gently as she could, rubbing gentle circles on the young Winchester's arm. He opened his eyes sleepily, "Hmmm? How long was I asleep?"

"Not long," Ellen lied. "You ready for your first physio?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Dr. Clancy smiled. "We need to make sure Sam's bones are knitting together satisfactorily. We're just going to do a radiograph first." He saw how Sam's face fell and added, "But we've already got your first physio session scheduled for tomorrow morning. We're pretty optimistic. First, I need to see about this traction. I'm going to disconnect the weights but you need to stay completely still during transfer. Can you do that?"

Sam nodded. "When can I start walking again?"

"First things first. You've got to take it slow, don't try running before you can walk," Clancy chided.

Sam tried to heed the doctor's words but it went against everything life on the road with John Winchester had taught him. No situation could be adequately prepared for, you only found out you could walk when you were sprinting past the finish line. One thing he knew for sure was that just walking wasn't going to find Dean and that was all that mattered. He lay back, feeling the gentle tug as the doctor carefully disconnected the traction weights from the leather stabiliser around his waist. He hadn't fully appreciated how much pressure they had exerted until they were gone. He really hoped they didn't come back again.

Ellen headed in the direction of the hospital canteen while he underwent the tests. After so many days of fussing and testing, Sam had grown accustomed to being tugged around like a rag doll. He realised that the doctors and nurses didn't see him as a human being but more of a puppet to be needled, poked and forced to move into painful positions. Still, for the first time, it looked like this was a procedure he could endure for the promise its outcome posed. If the radiograph came back clear then the day of his discharge loomed even closer.

Bobby's heart turned a somersault when he saw the empty hospital room. Sam had seemed okay when he left earlier, surely things couldn't have taken such a downward turn in so short a time. He stood motionless in the doorway for a few minutes, unable to co-ordinate himself into any kind of action. His brain was numb to the possibility that Sam was…gone.

Ellen's voice was like a ray of sunshine in his ear. "He's getting a scan, they should get him walking in the next couple of days. What did you turn up?"

Bobby's frown smoothed out instantly. "Jeez, I nearly had a heart attack! I thought…well, never mind. I didn't turn up nearly as much as I hoped. Aside from the geography being way out, our creature's time patterns don't correlate at all. However, I did turn up a legend that I think might be a distinct possibility. It's a tale handed down from indigenous people of the Arctic, dismissed as story by most folk but, you know how these things are. It's worth checking out."

"Do you want me to do some research? Give you a break?" Ellen asked. She didn't mind the uncomfortable hospital chairs, Sam's mood swings or dubious food, but she still felt at a bit of a loose end. Plus, Bobby was carrying sets of matching luggage beneath his bloodshot eyes. "You look like you could use it."

Bobby nodded mutely, tugging at the peak of his cap as he often did when words eluded him. "Maybe later. I just wanted to check on Sam."

"He should be back soon." Ellen offered a reassuring smile but caught an expression she had learnt to read well on Bobby's face. "What is it? Bobby, what aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing!" Bobby protested unconvincingly. Melting under Ellen's stern stare, he quickly gave up his secrets. "It's just that the wildlife officer, Dan, called me earlier….They're calling off the search for Dean."

"What?! Why?" Ellen demanded.

"There's been a cave collapse in the mountains, some popular pot holing haunts. They need every man they've got to check the place out and keep visitors safe. Dan said that after this amount of time and going on past victims of this creature…"

"Yes?" Ellen barked.

Bobby could hardly meet her gaze. "On the basis of past victims, they'd be looking for a carcass, not a survivor." Silence filled the space between the two hunters until Bobby broke it with uncharacteristic optimism. "Which is fine….We'd do a much better job on our own anyway. These people just march past the clues with no regard for what they're messing with."

Ellen nodded unenthusiastically, clearly not convinced by Bobby's ebullience. There was so much more she could say about the prospect of Dean alone, probably injured and fighting the forces of the supernatural, but emotional outpourings were finally failing her. "Listen, I've been thinking. The hotel bills are racking up and it might not be too long before Sam's on an out-patient physio programme. I was going to look into renting us a place, just for a month or so." She waited for the old hunter to respond.

Bobby pondered the question for a moment or two, thick fingers scrubbing noisily through his peppered beard. "Sure, I guess. You told Sam?"

"Not yet, I figured I'd run it by you first," Ellen rationalised.

"Well then I guess we've both got some news to tell him," Bobby replied, gruffly, jerking his head in the direction of Sam's gurney being wheeled down the corridor towards them. The smile on the young man's face told them that the outcome of his radiograph must have been good. The two hunters just wished every piece of good news didn't always have to be tempered with the bad.

* * *

Dean couldn't muster the energy to try and break his bonds, even though it was just ropes this time. Instead, he was reliving the moment he had tried to escape the previous day. He cursed himself for being so quick to try and make a break for it. He kept telling himself if he'd just waited another day, or another hour, but even then he couldn't be sure.

Still terribly weak from his first ordeal at the hands of the demon creature, Dean had found himself being treated much more kindly by Ridley. He had played into the old man's hands, making himself appear increasingly vulnerable. Of course, that wasn't difficult when he felt like someone had stretched him like a rubber band and wrung him out like a dish cloth. His insides felt dry and twisted, as if each organ were rubbing together, causing pain whenever he moved. But Dean had never been one for self-pity and the ever present drive for self-preservation spurred him on. His sole thought lay in how he was going to escape.

When Ridley was in the basement with him, the young hunter watched closely for the slightest hint that he might be able to make a move. When the old man left, Dean spent every waking moment considering every ounce of information he had gathered about Ridley's home and location. It wasn't much but it gave him something to do, a way to focus on mapping out one escape plan after another. Once Plan A had been successfully conceived, he moved onto Plan B, after Plan B came another contingency Plan C and so on. Dean rarely turned his thoughts inwards to self-examination, generally he left that to Sam. But if he had been honest with himself, he would have recognised that his plans were far-fetched at best, relying on his opponent's dull wits, strength he didn't possess and a lot of unlocked doors between him and the outside world. No, instead each plan kept the hunter from admitting the truth, his own defeat. He was trapped, barely able to stand and he had already received a pretty good picture of his fate.

It was inherent in Dean's nature to act, sometimes rashly, but he couldn't bear to stay still. In one fell swoop, with a single attempt at escape, Ridley had made him wish he had never tried. Dean had waited patiently, feigned enough weakness for Ridley to release him from his ropes just long enough to eat. With each mouthful, the young hunter had kept his guard up, his eyes ever watchful whenever the old man's back was turned. At last he had seen his chance, so simple and easy.

Ridley was engrossed in stoking the fire and was busy arranging kindling and firelighters. Dean had watched the routine for long enough to realise his captor would be unlikely to look his way for a few moments. Pushing through the crushing pain in his limbs and torso, Dean forced himself into a crouch. He silently prayed that his body would not give out on him halfway across the basement. The floor was freezing beneath his now bare feet and he half expected to get freezer burns on his soles. But that didn't matter, he could handle that if he could just get free. His heart was pounding like a church bell in his ears but he felt like he wasn't breathing at all. With each step closer to the basement stairs, the fear of being discovered doubled. When he reached the first step, Dean knew it was now or never. The stairs were extremely creaky, Ridley would turn on him as soon as he started up them. The hunter's only advantage was speed and even that depended on his body not failing him. He was also relying on that bodily strength to bulldoze through the door if it had been locked. He didn't think it had, he had listened carefully when Ridley entered.

'Here goes,' he silently told himself. As predicted, the very first creak of old boards on the staircase turned Ridley's head with lightning speed. "Not so fast!" he shouted. Dean didn't even wait to see the man start moving, his own feet hardly touching the stairs, the door yawning away from him.

He grasped the door knob with shaking fingers, his palm slick with sweat. It wouldn't budge! Dean was certain the door had been unlocked when Ridley came down. "Shit! Come on, damn it!" he shouted. With every ounce of strength, he launched his shoulder at the door like a battering ram but the old wood held fast.

In horror, he felt a solid hand grip his ankle and yank hard. At first, Dean managed to prevent himself falling by holding fast to the door knob but, still recuperating from his first encounter with the creature, Ridley was stronger. The second sharp tug sent the young hunter sliding down onto the top steps. He landed awkwardly, too slow to break his fall, the base of his spine impacting with the step edge. Dean cried out, partly in pain and partly in desperation. He couldn't fail! This was his one and only chance for escape and Ridley wouldn't be so lenient again. He tried desperately to kick the old man away from him but Ridley just kept advancing, his own determination overwhelming Dean. A tiny part of the hunter had still refused to treat an old man too violently, even when his own life was at stake. So it came as a horrific surprise when Ridley delivered a blow to his jaw of such strength that it sent Dean's head spinning. He was on the verge of gathering himself when the second blow came, this time to the side of his head. Dean was seeing stars, the world around him nothing more than a spinning blur. Somewhere beyond the buzzing in his brain, he heard the ominous sound of Ridley's voice rising from a murmur to a commanding volume. Dean felt himself being dragged back down the stairs, his body and head bumping relentlessly against each step. Still, Ridley's voice continued its steady chanting.

A familiar coldness settled across the room and Dean found himself panicking. The startling strength of Ridley's blow to his head still had him reeling and the young hunter was helpless as he was pinned to his stomach and his arms roughly tied behind his back. Dean struggled for breath and his voice barely rose above a whimper, "Please…please, no, don't…don't…" He heard Ridley retreating, his footsteps shuffling with speed across the bare floor. But there was something else hovering over him now, something much more terrifying.

* * *

And that's it for this chapter! Please, please, please send me a few crumbs - I don't even care if they're stale! I'm like a pigeon in Trafalgar Square! 


	13. Where There's A Will

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I can't really keep apologising for my rubbish time management so I won't. Suffice to say, the guilt is most definitely there!! To Dean lovers, this chapter is a little thin on our eldest brother but there is a reasonably juicy scene for hurt/comfort lovers and I will be giving him more in the next part. Sam lovers, I know it looks like he's getting better, but there's always a calm before the storm, right?

I hope I have replied to everyone who has reviewed. You have been so generous with your words and thoughts. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! To those who have prodded (Phoebe!) and poked, an extra special thanks because it did force me to plan, if not write, the next bits. A big thank you to people I couldn't IM : Antonella, Kelly, Nick, Shannon (I choose Cadburys & I truly appreciated your words of encouragement. I'm glad you enjoyed the Ellen moments but, never fear, I won't be pairing her off with Bobby in this story!), Your reviews mean so much.

PART 13 : WHERE THERE'S A WILL…

"Absolutely not!" Sam's voice rang out strong and clear across the room. "We don't need it because we're going to be out of this damned place as soon as I can get out of this bed and find Dean!"

"Sam, honey, be realistic. We don't know how long it'll be before your body is fully healed. You've got to face up to the fact that it might be a little while before you can put Whitehorse in your rear view mirror. Renting somewhere will just give you a bit more recuperation time." Ellen could see Sam's jaw twitching with irritation as he heard her out, her words bouncing off his brain.

Bobby tried to back her up but he hadn't had much practise in the arguing department, something that Sam and Ellen got lots of. "Sam, it makes sense. It's a base where we don't have to keep hiding our research from housekeeping and where you and Dean can rest for a while."

The mention of Dean in the future tense, imagining him whole and in need of some chicken soup, seemed to calm Sam somewhat. Finally, he relented and agreed that renting a place on short lease might not be so dreadful. "But just for a month," he had declared.

After the tussle over housing arrangements, Ellen was starting to wish they had started with Bobby's news about the search. Sam was already under enough emotional strain in having to acknowledge that his stay was going to be more prolonged than he wanted. Ellen wasn't sure he had the reserves to deal with being told the rangers had called off the search as well. She leaned on Bobby for this part and she was grateful that she wasn't alone to deal with the aftermath.

"Sam, there's something you've got to know," Bobby said, gruffly. The young man looked at him, his eyes shimmering with anguish. Bobby needn't have bothered explaining himself because whatever had remained of Sam's optimism had melted away already. "They've called off the search…but don't you worry, we'll find Dean on our own. It'll be better this way," he said, echoing the words he had said to Ellen earlier.

Instead of an outburst, Sam said nothing, which was even more unsettling. His face was a blank mask, completely unreadable. Even so, Bobby could still recognise elements of John in that indecipherable expression. He knew the torrent of emotion it concealed and remembered well picking up the pieces when those feelings could no longer be suppressed. He recalled the bar brawls, the reckless hunts as if he were invincible. Bobby could only be grateful that Sam was currently bed-ridden and unable to follow in his father's footsteps.

"Sam, say something," Ellen encouraged. She watched the twitching muscle in his jaw, the impenetrable darkness in his eyes. "Sam?"

He shook his head, "What do you want me to say? Yeah, it's great that the rest of this backwater thinks Dean is dead?!"

"Sam, we stand a better chance working this out on our own and you know it," Bobby interjected. "Every time you've worked a case, you've had to dodge people who don't have a clue. They'll have been stomping over vital evidence out there. The quicker they're out of the way, the better we can get in there and do what we do best."

Sam was silent. He knew how he appeared to the two hunters standing at his bedside – a time bomb ready to explode at the drop of a hat. He could see the wary tension in their faces, hear it in the mincing words they used to make him feel better. Sometimes it disgusted Sam to see himself through their eyes, like a baby with a tantrum just around the corner. He might not have physical strength to utilise but he still had a strong brain and it told him to give Bobby and Ellen what they wanted. Just as soon as he was on his feet, he'd be out in the field anyway, all this was just biding his time.

* * *

When Ellen stepped into the hospital room again later in the day, carrying a big bunch of flowers, she found Sam fast asleep. It brought a small glow of warmth to her heart to see him finally able to rest. His physiotherapy sessions had given him something to focus on outside of the search for Dean and it provided him with a small degree of peace. She tiptoed across the room and unwrapped the flowers. Ellen knew they wouldn't mean anything to Sam but it was more for her own benefit. She was sick of the clinical white walls and wanted to bring just a little cheer into their lives. It pained her to pass other patients' rooms, seeing them adorned with balloons, cards and get well gifts. Sam had one feeble effort in the form of a card from downstairs signed by herself and Bobby. She knew that the young Winchester had been at college before John's disappearance. He probably had lots of friends, plenty of people who would have sent cards and gifts, but that was another life. This was a different Sam Winchester, one with dark dreams and blood on his hands.

As if cued in by Ellen's gloomy thoughts, Sam began to mumble in his sleep. His forehead creased as he struggled in the clutches of a bad dream. Ellen rubbed his brow lightly with a finger, willing away the tension reflected there but Sam jerked away from her touch. The mumbling drifted in and out, punctuated by words of panic and self-defence. "No…I can't…help…"

Ellen watched Sam's agitation increase with concern until she was unable to stand by and watch any longer. Tracing a gentle path down his temple and cheek, she tried to wake him as gently as possible. "Sssh, Sam. Come on, it's time to wake up." She felt a pang of emotion as he shifted into her soothing hand, unconsciously seeking the steady, maternal force he could sense there.

Suddenly his brown eyes snapped open and met hers. He paused as he took in his surroundings, his gaze surveying the room as if mentally reminding himself that Dean wasn't there. As the reality sank in, Sam levered himself up onto his elbows and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Hey," he mumbled, feeling momentarily awkward in his vulnerability.

Ellen quickly alighted on a neutral subject. "Do you like the flowers? I figured it could to do with brightening up round here."

Sam glanced with disinterest at the bright red blooms beside the bed. "They're nice," was all he could manage in response.

Ellen sat down on the bed, "So, how was therapy today?"

Sam shrugged, "Okay, I guess, the usual. I went swimming."

"Swimming? That's a first, isn't it?" Ellen hated the 'chipper' tone to her voice but it just seemed to take over uncontrollably. She wasn't surprised when Sam gave her the closest he could to a withering look. "When was the last time you went swimming?"

Sam thought for a moment, humouring her. A sudden flash of diving into an unheated pool to save a drowning girl at the Pierpont Inn entered his mind and he pushed it aside. "High school, I guess."

"So what were you doing? Any hot girls?" Ellen just couldn't stop the ridiculous words babbling out of her mouth. Trying to think of the sort of 'guy' stuff he would have talked about with Dean was a bad idea and there was no way Sam was going to tell her even if he did think any of the girls were hot. "Okay, scrap the last part."

Sam's lip twitched into a hint of a smile. He didn't really want to discuss his pathetic attempts at walking, it only made him feel worse, but he could see how hard Ellen was trying. "I was just walking a bit, using floats and stuff to balance and build up core strength." He hoped that was enough to make Ellen drop it and quickly asked, "What have you been doing?"

"The local library. There were several books on local legends and history. I wondered if there had been any Native American burial grounds desecrated, any unnatural deaths that might have unleashed an angry spirit."

"Or been caused by one," Sam added. He sounded more alert and he pulled himself up properly in the bed, feeling his arm muscles shake with the exertion of taking the weight of his own body. His body revolted him. It was so weak, rebellious, refusing to co-operate and do anything his brain instructed it to. Having to lie and wait for Bobby or Ellen to bring information to his bedside was frustrating at best. Plus, he tried not to think it, but he knew that he and Dean were a hell of a lot better at extracting information from people. Bobby had always been rubbish at keeping up any kind of cover or subtlety and Ellen had all but washed her hands of anything other than what came bowling through the doors of the Roadhouse. Sam very much doubted that either of the older hunters would have got even half the useful information he or Dean would have managed. "And was there anything?" he asked.

Ellen rummaged in her bag. "You know how it is, every town has one or two tragedies. No dates matched up closely enough to the first spate of killings to be sure."

"But we should still follow them up," Sam asserted, firmly. He wasn't going to leave any stone unturned if it meant the difference between finding Dean alive or dead.

Ellen nodded, "Yes….There was something else, a baby killed in a nursery fire." She saw Sam's eyes widen in horror. "The father was a heavy smoker, the source was verified as being started by negligence and his cigarette catching fire…but still…" Ellen promised, "I'll check it out this afternoon."

"Okay," Sam replied. "Besides, whatever got to Dean and all those people, was indiscriminate about whoever was out in the forest. Nothing about it matches the yellow-eyed demon's behaviour. Did you find anything else?"

Ellen shook her head, "No, but Bobby was on the trail of an Inuit legend. He might have dug something useful up." She was desperate to give the young man some hope to cling to. "He was going to swing by this afternoon before…you know…"

Sam smiled, "It's okay, I'm not going to have a fit. You and Bobby can go look at apartments all you like." He caught Ellen's suspicious stare and quickly changed the subject. He wasn't sure how long he could keep up the charade of being okay with this new cosy setting. "Can you pass me my laptop?"

Ellen retrieved Sam's computer from where it had been recharging in the corner. "Don't you go tiring yourself out."

* * *

Ridley pulled the duvet cover tightly up around his chest and plumped the pillow again. He used to get such pleasure from wintry evenings spent with a good book while the branches tapped the windows and the wind whistled through the old house. Those times were but distant memories now. As much as Ridley tried to read his novel, his mind would not stay focused. It kept wandering back to the knowledge that he was not alone in his house. Where most people craved company in the darkness, Ridley felt only fear and guilt when he thought of what dwelt with him. He wished he were alone with nothing more than the wind and rain. It sure beat the reality.

Strangely, it was not the nearby presence of the demon that haunted him; he had lived with that for years. No, it was the ever-present guilt that gnawed away at him. He could hardly bear the image of his hapless prisoner that appeared every time he closed his eyes. Dean had been so full of vitality, his every word and look laced with belligerence and cockiness. Now, it was as if that entire person had been scraped out until nothing but a shell remained. Tied up down in the cellar, chilled to the bone, Ridley hated himself for the torture he was putting the young man through.

Whenever he went down there with meals, he dreaded the deteriorated state he would find Dean in. His skin had lost all colour and was now pallid and bloodless. His eyes were sunken and tired, all glint of life extinguished. The whites were bloodshot and Ridley could see him losing the fight, welcoming death if it released him from the pain. Dean had been lean when the old man first found him but now his frame was almost skeletal. The demon's feeding pattern did not allow the young hunter enough time to adequately recuperate and his body was finding it harder and harder to regenerate.

Ridley couldn't put a number on how many days he expected Dean to survive, but it wouldn't be long. Even if the demon didn't finish him off, the hunter would do it himself. Turning over in his bed, Ridley tried to blot out sounds of clinking chains, of rasping breaths as his prisoner struggled to draw air into his weakened lungs. He pushed aside the indelible image of gnarled, claw-like fingers pressed against Dean's chest and his eyes, filled with fear, begging for relief. Ridley had seen that expression time and again, as his own voice rose and fell in cadences that called the creature to cause the pain. He had done nothing to ease it. He had no choice, he kept telling himself. It was the price he had to pay to save more innocent people from becoming victims. Dean's suffering was an act of martyrdom, that is if he had volunteered for the task.

* * *

With each passing day, Sam's physical strength increased as he threw himself into therapy. His body was strengthening but his mind still fluctuated between positive determination to get well and find Dean and the overwhelming knowledge of the mountain he had to climb before he was anywhere near useful. The physical therapy kept him occupied and it was intensive enough for Sam to see satisfying results.

The day of his release from hospital moved ever closer until it was finally upon him and Sam once again found his elation tempered by fear. He had known at the start what bad shape he had been in so to be walking again, even as shakily as he was, reminded him how long Dean had been out there.

Ellen had been busy signing release papers and returned to find Sam seated in the obligatory wheelchair, staring out of the window. She tried not to startle him as she approached, "Sam? You ready to roll?"

Sam smirked at the feeble joke but the laughter did not make it to his eyes. "Yeah." He felt her hands on the back of the wheelchair, "It's okay. I can do it."

"The doctor said you shouldn't overdo the strain on your back…"

"I can do it," Sam asserted, firmly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm the frustration that was welling in his chest. He knew he should apologise for being so curt with Ellen and he could already imagine the uncertain look on her face. He just couldn't say another 'I'm sorry'. Jerking his hands on the wheels, Sam backed up from the window and made his way to the door. He could feel Ellen following closely behind and the young Winchester had to summon all his restraint to stop himself from jumping up out of the chair and making a run for it. He desperately wanted to be alone; he couldn't remember the last time he had been. There had always been doctors and nurses, Bobby and Ellen do-gooding and tiptoeing around but then, even before that, there had been Dean. Dean, the one-time estranged brother, Sam's polar opposite had become so intrinsic to his existence that they were one. It was not an overwhelming desire to be alone that urged Sam out of those hospital doors, it was the need to find his brother. It pulled him like a string tugging from his heart to his brother's, wherever it was. He could feel it like a tangible knot tied up inside him but the string had been caught on branches, snagged and wrapped on random objects in the dark. No matter how hard he tried, Sam always lost his way.

"Sam?" Ellen's concerned face hovered in front of his. "Are you okay?"

Sam stared back at her, dazed. "What?"

"Honey, you're pushing yourself too hard. Just sit back and let Bobby and me do the work for a bit, okay." She darted a worried glance in the grizzled hunter's direction and Sam didn't need to see it to imagine the look he returned.

The weakened young man wasn't sure whether Ellen was saying to quit searching for Dean and let them do it or just let her push the wheelchair but exhaustion was creeping into every limb, numbing his mind until he couldn't even contemplate arguing the point. "'kay," he said, letting his hands drop from the wheels.

Sam allowed himself to be pushed out into the open air. For a second, it felt as if he had been dunked in a freezing lake. He had missed the fresh air and he casually tilted his head to feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Sam allowed himself to be pushed to the car. Bobby opened the passenger door and Ellen began manoeuvring the wheelchair alongside. "It's okay, I can do it. I can walk, remember," Sam said.

Ellen gave him a suspicious look but allowed him some room. "Okay." She watched like a hawk as Sam raised himself on shaky arms and planted two feet on the tarmac. He swayed for a second and reached for the door frame. It took all of Ellen's will power not to help.

Sam felt momentarily dizzy as his head fought to catch up with his body's movements. He knew the two hunters were watching him like hawks and their thoughts were transparent. Sam wished he could prove them wrong, make them realise that he was ready to get out there and join the hunt. But he also knew his words would be futile. He just had to bide his time, keep researching, give Ellen and Bobby what they needed to ease their concern.

Sam lowered himself into the passenger seat and fumbled with the seat belt. He could feel perspiration breaking out across his forehead and upper lip, feel the thumping of his heart in his chest. He ran a trembling hand over his damp skin and let his head drop back against the headrest. Sam closed his eyes, seemingly for a moment but he was already out for the count before Bobby had even fired up the ignition.

* * *

The first sensation Dean experienced was a pounding head that he wrestled with for some time before he gradually became aware of the rest of his battered body. From his head, signals warned him that there was more hurt to come and the first hitch of breath caused crushing pain in his chest. Dean struggled to open his eyes, trying to make sense of what he was feeling. Strong hands pressed against his shoulders and the young hunter could hear Ridley's rumbling voice close in his ear. "Easy, son, just settle down or I'll have to put you out again." The voice made Dean mentally recoil, its associations rapidly filling his fogged mind.

Dean carefully opened his eyes but he wasn't fully aware of his surroundings. Each breath was an effort to contain the pain in his chest and the thumping in his head did nothing to help. He tried to settle his breathing but a rising sense of unease overrode his rational brain until finally the ever-ready soldier Winchester kicked in. He pushed the pain to the back of his head, refusing to acknowledge it, riding it out with minimum fuss, that's how Dad always liked it.

As he cauterised the pain, the hunter gradually took in the view around him. He was surprised to see that he was no longer in the basement and he felt a damn sight warmer than he had so far. The ceiling above was all dark beams and cobwebs, the mellow lighting created lancing shadows across the yellowed plaster. Dean's eyes travelled down the wall, seeing a wooden dresser covered with bottles, cufflinks, even a hat perched on one edge. A large window to his left was curtained with chintzy, flowered fabric, confusing Dean further. His fingers moved over soft blankets and a large quilt and he quickly realised he must be in one of Ridley's bedrooms, perhaps even his own. What had happened? Why was he here?

Sensing the young man's confusion, Ridley explained, "You were unwell. You needed…extra care. Would you like some water?" he asked as simply as if he had invited the hunter in for tea.

Dean struggled to absorb this strange turn of events. "I thought you wanted me dead."

Ridley chuckled, "Quite the contrary. I want you alive for as long as possible."

"Yeah, but not at risk to yourself, right?" Dean asked and found a little comfort in the faint alarm he saw in the old man's eyes as the possibilities of the hunter getting the upper hand crossed his mind. "Besides, I thought you might have had enough of me after, you know…"

"…your little performance earlier?" Ridley finished. "Well, I was quite cross, yes, but I suppose I can hardly blame you for trying. I should have been more guarded." The old man raised the water glass to Dean's lips and the young man automatically lifted his hand to take it from him. To his horror, his wrists, still sore and bandaged from the chains, jarred painfully inches from their resting place on the quilt. Looking down, he saw that he was tethered firmly to the bed frame. Ridley's lips curled into a half smile, "I won't be making that mistake again."

Dean's eyes surveyed Ridley's face, his disgust thinly veiled. Everything about his captor revolted him - from the thin quivering lips, always glistening with spit, to the wiry hair protruding from his nose. Why he hadn't kicked the pensioner firmly in the mouth with his foot when he had tried to escape, Dean couldn't fathom. Whatever small measure of guilt he had felt at hurting an old man was well and truly dead. If he could beat him to a pulp right now he would. Dean tried hard to quell the rage growing inside him; he didn't have the physical strength to match it. "Why am I here then?" His chest still hurt like hell and he was hoping Ridley would explain it.

"Well, after your failed escape attempt, I decided you must have been stronger than I thought. I thought feeding the demon would drain a little of the fight out of you." Ridley looked down as if slightly ashamed of himself. "It seems I miscalculated. The feed almost killed you. I had to resuscitate you right there on the basement floor. It was touch and go for a while…I was even starting to wonder where I'd put my shovel to dig your grave." The old man chuckled again and Dean felt bile rising in his throat at the thought of his body left for the worms in the middle of the forest. He saw Sam's face, drawn with misery and uncertainty, searching for a brother that was long dead. Ridley continued, "Finally, I returned you to the land of the living, not without a few cracked ribs, I'm afraid."

That explained the pain then. Dean couldn't contain his emotion, "Well, if you're expecting a 'thank you', you can wait 'til Hell freezes over."

Ridley's steely gaze pierced Dean and the hunter wondered if he'd pushed the old man too far. Part of him couldn't help but feel afraid even when the rest of him was saying it didn't matter. He was going to die anyway. Clearing his throat as if erasing his captive's venomous comment, Ridley continued, "So I brought you up here, give you a little time to recuperate. It won't be long mind. The creature won't wait for long."

The mention of the demon's needs reminded Dean that he had never got to play his hunter card to its maximum. If he was going to save himself from a hole in the ground, now was as good a time as any. "Listen, you say you've tried everything to make this thing stop, that there's no way…but I'll bet you don't know the things I know." His eyes pleaded for Ridley to listen and it seemed the old man was going to humour him. "I hunt these things. That's why I was in the woods in the first place, to hunt this damned creature down and kill it once and for all." Ridley said nothing, his gaze unwavering. "You've gotta believe me. This is what I do for a living. I'm a demon hunter." The words sounded ridiculous even to his own ears but Dean knew he had nothing to lose anymore.

Ridley was quiet, perhaps digesting what he was hearing. "Okay, say for a moment you _are_ a demon hunter, that this isn't just a ruse to save your own skin. What were you going to do to get rid of it? Catch it in a devil's trap? Find some bones and burn them, shower it in holy water? Summon up a force of good, some angel, to battle it into the depths of Hell?"

Dean's mouth gaped, flabbergast that the man knew any of this stuff. "Uh, yeah, I guess, all except that last part." Now was no time for humour but it was the only way the hunter knew to hide his fear.

Ridley snorted, "You don't think I've researched enough to know about those things? This creature is ancient, rooted in such power it would take an army of sorcerers to bring it down. You can't cast some spell over it and make it go away."

"There's always a way. I've been hunting since I was a kid, fought more demonic entities than you could ever name and I'm still here! I've always found their weaknesses in the end! What's to say I can't do the same for you?" Dean's voice was starting to sound like an echo in his own head and his words began to slur. His throbbing head was easing off, as was the leaden pressure in his chest. He looked at Ridley but the man seemed to be shimmering, his body separating into doppelgangers and back again.

Ridley shook his head vigorously. "You've finally met your match, boy, and I'm not letting you go just so my one shot at containing it escapes me. You'll get to save the world from its wrath…for a little while longer anyway." He stood up abruptly. "Don't even think about trying to get yourself free. I drugged your water. Don't bother trying to fight it. I want you rested." Dean struggled to make sense of the words he was hearing but the chemicals coursing through his body were too strong and he could do nothing to prevent his sleepy eyelids from closing.

* * *

Sam felt like he had been sleepwalking for weeks now. The whole world seemed remote and untouchable, as if he had no imprint on it at all. Only the less frequent bouts of pain made him feel truly alive and he started to feel glad for the twinges in his spine and the dull ache he felt in his ribs with a sharp intake of breath. After everything he had been through, the young Winchester's mind simply couldn't cope with the dread realisation that Dean must be dead by now. His whole life revolved around his big brother. Dean was the only thing Sam had to live for right now. If he allowed himself to contemplate Dean's death properly, it would be almost laughable considering how far he had run from everything his brother represented. In leaving for school, Sam had tried his hardest to put his screwed up childhood and his broken family, including the ever present big brother who tried to protect him from every evil. As always though, Fate threw the biggest punches when you were least expecting it. Dean wouldn't be there to protect him when Sam's whole world was crumbling irreparably around him.

Today was going to be a difficult day, Sam knew that much already. From the second he had opened his eyes, he could just feel the lethargy in his bones. So he had chickened out of this day and denied its existence by lying in bed, staring out of the window. Sunlight was already forcing its way through the chink in the curtains and was creeping steadily up the bedcovers. It was evidently going to be a beautiful day. That usually made Sam feel better, more positive and ready to tackle the case once more. There weren't many supernatural creatures who relished the harsh colours of daylight, preferring to stick to the shadows of night. It was like being given a head start. Whatever might happen to Dean during the night was unlikely to happen for several hours now. If the hunters managed to turn up anything of use today, they might feasibly have Dean home and safe by nightfall. Sam didn't need to heed his voice of reason telling him how unlikely such a reunion would be; sadly, he knew the score only too well.

Sam watched the slit of light as he listened to Bobby and Ellen starting the day. He heard them take their turns in the bathroom, fix breakfast that smelled like toast, even Ellen's hisses to prevent Bobby's rumbling voice from waking Sam up.

When he wasn't completely absorbed in the search, Sam had found the older hunters' companionable relationship quite interesting to gauge. Bobby had lost his wife and Ellen had lost her husband, both through circumstances they would rather forget. They blocked the memories of their tortured, lost relationships behind masks of steel. Neither would ever admit that they needed a partner back in their lives but the Winchester brothers' predicament had brought them together in a bizarre mutation of a marriage. Sam regularly tuned out their bickering, whether it be pertinent details of Dean's disappearance or who didn't put the butter back in the refrigerator. Far be it for Sam to match make, but he could see that, beneath their exasperated veneers, Bobby and Ellen were really warming to each other.

Sam couldn't imagine how he would have survived his long recovery without their constant help and support. He was going to owe them big time when he was fully functional and Dean was restored to them. Ellen had been there for emotional support when he needed it most but was unable to express those needs. Bobby had been an unstoppable whirlwind of research and information gathering. Not once had he looked at Ellen askance as if wishing Sam would give up on finding his brother. He had never voiced a single word on calling off the search. Sam didn't know whether it was out of some loyalty or unpaid debt to their father or if it was out of a genuine fondness for the Winchester brothers, but Sam was more grateful than he could say.

Almost every day, Bobby had set a new book or pile of photocopies in front of the ailing hunter, exploiting a new avenue of research. No stone had been left unturned as Bobby paraded out local killers, crazy folk, every newspaper article pertaining to dangerous behaviour or the unexplained. He had tirelessly interviewed anyone open to talking and even those who weren't. Both Sam and Ellen had to take their hats off to the grizzled hunter for making the trip to the mental institution once they heard about Alan Naughton's volatile reactions. Last night, Bobby had declared that his next move was to visit a local reservation. In his opinion, the Native Americans of the area were more in tune with what truly existed in the wilderness than any of the town folk.

The squeak of the old door handle opening drew Sam from his reverie. He was tempted to close his eyes again and pretend to be resting, knowing that he would be left to sleep. It was too late though and Ellen rounded the bed, gently placing a glass of water and a handful of pills on the night table. "Morning, Sam. How long have you been awake?" she asked, lightly.

Sam rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "A little while, I guess." He reached for the glass. "Thanks."

Ellen smiled but her eyes told a different story. She was suspicious. She had been around Sam long enough now to know when he was heading into a black cloud day. Knowing better than to indulge it, she flung open the curtains and allowed the warm sunlight to fill the small, dingy bedroom. "So, Bobby's already headed out to the reservation."

"Uh-huh," Sam murmured. He looked forlornly at the pile of coloured pills and caplets on the table. He hated the dull routine of taking them, remembering to set his watch for the right time for his next dose. Plus, there was always one that stuck in his throat for hours, despite drinking lots of water. The doctors told him it would make him better but Sam needed a miracle pill that allowed him to run and, more importantly, hunt.

"Sam…" Ellen hesitated. She had been going to ask him if he was okay but knew it was the wrong question. Sam would lie and, besides, she already knew he wasn't. She had watched him wrestle with his emotions since the day he had woken up but now he had reached an even more disturbing place of stasis. Instead of swinging wildly from extreme depression to bouts of enthusiasm, Sam had sunk into a groove that remained the same day after day. He was losing heart and nothing quite seemed to touch him anymore. Ellen wished there was a way to lift him out of it but she had run out of options long ago. "The courier arrived with those papers you wanted."

Sam looked at her askance. "What?"

"Last week, remember? You asked me to get ahold of the incident reports filed about Naughton?"

"Oh, yeah, thanks." Sam recalled the request but he could no longer put a finger on why he had been so keen to read them. Bobby had gathered the crucial facts. "I'll look at them later."

"Okay," Ellen nodded. "Bobby said he'd get the truck back by two."

"Why?" Sam asked, confused. "Oh, yeah," he muttered as he remembered the dull routine of therapy that seemed to be taking forever. He didn't think he could handle the therapist's chipper attitude today but the last thing he wanted was to be dragged back to hospital for a new psychiatric evaluation because his smile wasn't big enough.

Sam drew himself up in the bed and picked through the pills for the smallest, least bitter ones first. He knocked them back with the glass of water, under Ellen's scrutiny the entire time. "I'm gonna take a shower," he said.

"Okay," Ellen said. "You need anything?" Sam was getting stronger every day but she wasn't past offering help. It was good to see him literally standing on his own two feet again but she occasionally worried that he was pushing himself too hard. Still, the Winchesters had always been independent, a law unto themselves. There was no getting in their way.

"I'm good, thanks," Sam said, trying not to be offended.

"You want me to fix you some breakfast? You shouldn't take all those on an empty stomach."

"I'll get some when I'm ready," Sam said. He swung his legs out of bed and his head spun a little but he refused to pause. He was still getting used to his weaker, less compliant body, but the last thing he wanted was Ellen fussing unnecessarily. He tried to blink the black dots out of his vision and walked slowly towards the fuzzy door ahead of him, feeling the older hunter's steely gaze on his back the whole way.

Sam relished the heat of the water spilling down over his head and neck, running rivulets down his spine and chest. He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall tiles. He was starting to feel half human again and focus returned to his cotton wool head. Bobby was at the reservation? What was that all about? He would have to ask Ellen. First, he needed to look over the incident report from Alan Naughton's psychotic break. Sam fully trusted that Bobby had run through the file with a fine-toothed comb but, as the Winchester boys were coming to realise, each hunter's experiences threw up wildly different frames of reference over the years. Sam wouldn't rest easy until he was sure Bobby's finds corroborated with his own.

* * *

Showered, dressed and swallowing the last of his bowl of cereal, Sam asked Ellen, "So what's Bobby doing at the reservation?"

"He wanted to check out some of the local myths firsthand. He should be back soon."

Sam grimaced. Physio suddenly got in the way of his day's plans. He had gone from moping sadness to a more positive outlook in under half an hour, something the young man refused to attribute to the handfuls of pills rattling round his system. "I'll be in my room if you need me." Sam dumped his bowl and mug in the sink and retrieved the heavy pile of documents from the table.

Opening the manila folder, Sam stared into the hollow eyes of Alan Naughton. Somehow, the mug shots always made people look like killers, even if they were in fact innocent. Sam glanced through the pictures pertaining to the murders but there was nothing he hadn't seen before the fateful flight out here anyway. It was the hard facts he was more interested in. From the details, it appeared that Naughton had been heavily sedated for prolonged periods of time in order to contain his rages. He was intent on killing and therapy sessions involved secure restraints at all times. His mind was mostly single track, determined to take lives with whatever means he had. Without the influence of drugs, Naughton would purloin a paperclip and attempt to stab an orderly in the neck with it or, where no implements were available, he had knocked a doctor to the ground and jumped on his chest repeatedly. In all instances, he was forcibly restrained before the hapless victim was dead.

When the violence wasn't raging inside him, Naughton seemed to teeter on the brink of despair. He cried for hours, sometimes days at a time, begging to be released from the torture no one could truly identify. Then, there was the breakthrough. A session with the therapist ended in complete mayhem when Naughton broke free from his bonds in an unprecedented show of strength. The doctor talking with him was completely unprepared for the onslaught and he was being choked to death by the time a team of orderlies accessed the room. It took four men to remove Naughton from the psychiatrist and took several minutes for the sedative to take effect, despite the high dosage. Everything in the records pointed to extreme abnormalities in this area. Naughton's strength and his resilience to the drug's effects was considered extraordinary. Academics speculated about chemicals released into the brain that would make the Hulk seem credible. Was Naughton a scientific phenomenon or something more supernatural? Sam would bet his money on the latter.

As he perused the rest of the file, he noted down the names of the four orderlies who had restrained Naughton, making a mental note to discover their whereabouts. The killings had continued after Naughton's incarceration and, miraculously, after his superpowered outburst, the wild behaviour stopped almost immediately. The file quickly dwindled into routine tests and observations until there was nothing to separate him from the other doped up loonies in the ward. Something truly bizarre had taken place during that outburst and Sam was pretty sure if he could get any of the witnesses to speak they would remember something odd, too.

"I'm home!" came a gruff voice and the sound of the front door slamming. Sam couldn't help the smile as he pictured a 'honey' on the front of Bobby's welcome and Ellen greeting him at the door in an apron and oven gloves.

The tone of the old hunter's voice sounded jovial and Sam hoped that was a sign that he had dug up something helpful. He closed the file on Naughton and shut the door on his dreary bedroom. "Hey, Bobby. You're looking…happy."

"Aah, well observed! Just wait 'til you hear what I have to tell ya, then you'll be smiling, too." He grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator and settled himself on the couch, fumbling in his back jeans pocket for a crumpled piece of paper. Ellen and Sam sat dutifully opposite, waiting for Bobby's story to commence. "I knew the local historians wouldn't have the whole story. It's the Natives who know the score, I'm telling you. Historically, the people in Arctic regions, including Alaska and Canada, were hunters, right?"

Sam nodded, "Right. And?"

"They had a unique relationship with their environment, an awareness of how the natural world nourished them both physically and spiritually. It's reflected tenfold in their myths and moral codes. This guy I spoke to at the reservation, he was half Native American, half Inuit. He's closer to being a spirit of this land than anyone," Bobby effused.

"What was his name?" Sam asked, trying to hinge what he was hearing on some solid facts.

"Phil," Bobby said matter-of-factly, failing to see the humour in this average name. "Anyway, the Inuit people believe that spiritual forces are inherent in humans, animals and all natural phenomena. Hunting peoples rely on hunting animals that have souls that must be propitiated by the hunter after being killed. Like reindeer, for instance, must be slaughtered correctly and their meat, bones and hide utilised in ways that will not offend the animal's guardian spirit."

At this, Bobby leaned forward conspiratorially. "Get this. Offences by an individual against animals and spirits in the natural world can cause pain to the souls of recently killed animals and entice vindictiveness and malevolent spirits, putting an entire community at risk."

Sam licked his lips and frowned as he absorbed what Bobby was telling him. "So you're saying the creature that has taken Dean is wreaking revenge for a hunting offence?"

Bobby paused and then nodded slowly, "I guess, if you want to put it that way. But you've got to see that animals are viewed with much more respect than we give them. Somewhere back along the history line, someone angered an animal's guardian spirit."

Sam sat up, starting to feel the thrill of a lead. "And the specific time rhythms of the attacks, every fifteen to twenty years, probably coincides with the time that the wrong was originally inflicted."

"That's all well and good," Ellen piped up, "but we're talking about animal hunting here, not human murders. If it was a person, we might find some local history reference to the murder but hunting and the potential suffering of a rabbit or deer in death is going to be impossible to discover. How in the Hell are we supposed to resolve it and placate the spirit?"

"That is, _if_ I'm right," Bobby asserted, suddenly taking a step back from his own argument.

"Well, it sure beats anything else we've got to go on," Sam admitted. "Did this Phil say anything about how we get Dean back?"

"Not exactly. He said that the balance between humans and the environment can be restored through the intervention of the shaman. He can visit the spirit world and act as a curer of illness, affliction and misfortune. Problem is, over the years, the native community has broken down. Phil all but admitted that the current shaman on the reservation was a fraud. He said we might be able to piece together some kind of rite through lots of different shamanic texts."

Sam tried not to show his deflation. "To inflict this level of damage, the spirit must have taken corporeal form, though."

Ellen agreed, "Which fits what we've got so far. Alan Naughton showed signs of sporadic possession. He gave himself in to the police when he was free from the spirit, out of guilt. Then once he was incarcerated, the spirit was trapped, too."

Bobby continued her thought aloud. "Somehow the spirit escaped the confinement, but it could have transferred to anyone at any time."

"I think I have a pretty good idea of when, though," Sam said. "I was reading about the incident when Naughton nearly crushed his psychiatrist's windpipe. The psychiatrist continued working at the Whitehorse facility without incident up until last year when he died of a heart attack. There is no evidence that the spirit transferred to him. The orderlies on the other hand…"

"Of course!" Bobby declared. "Did you check them out? When I looked over the file, I remember looking up their records. All four of them left the hospital's employment shortly after the attack."

"That's odd," Sam said. "We should go talk to them. I'll look up their whereabouts." He rescued his laptop from where it had slipped between the covers of his bed and returned to the couch. Ellen buried her head in the file while Bobby made coffee. At first the surge of new information had everyone in high spirits but as Sam struggled to reduce the list of names in his database, a muted tone descended on the room. Finally, Sam shut down the computer and sat back, both relieved and disappointed.

"Well, there's good news and there's bad news." Ellen and Bobby looked at him expectantly. "The bad news is, three of the orderlies are dead. The good news is, one of them is alive and he still lives locally."

"That's good," Ellen said. "What's his name? We can pay him a visit."

Sam glanced at his own scrawling handwriting, "Ridley Miller."

END OF PART 13


	14. Can You See Me?

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : As always, thank you to everyone who has reviewed. It never ceases to astound and thrill me how many people have followed the story so far & I appreciate every word that you guys take the time to write. This chapter is a little on the short side but it felt like a logical place to leave yet another cliffhanger (!) so I hope you enjoy it. Plus, I thought people would appreciate a more speedy update rather than a 20-pager in about a decade's time!

Sorry I didn't get around to PM-ing my gorgeous reviewers this time, but I promise I will with the next chapter (which I'm working on right now).

PART 14 : CAN YOU SEE ME?

Ridley was feeling increasingly nervous about having Dean upstairs and, despite his reservations about the young man's health, he decided it was time to take the hostage back down to the basement. He drugged the hunter's water and Dean drank it obligingly but knowingly. As much as the old man wanted his captive healthy, he also wanted him weak enough to manipulate and move whenever the need arose.

Dean needed water and the suspicion of what was pulped up in the bottom did not outweigh his thirst. He had all but given up on rescue or escape. After all, how many days had it been? Long enough. Dean knew that Sam would never give up on him but he could be dead. As much as the hunter hated to admit it, the outlook didn't look good.

Ridley hovered over Dean's bed, looking for some sign of feigned sleep. He listened to the young man's deep and even breathing, the dark lashes that did not flutter. Ridley was not fool enough to risk losing his prize a second time though. Leaning forwards, he pressed down hard on the deepest laceration on Dean's chest. The hunter's brow furrowed and he grunted in pain but did not wake. That was proof enough for Ridley.

He untied the knots holding Dean fast to the bed frame then rolled him onto his side while he drew the young man's hands behind his back and bound them together once more. Ridley ran another rope between Dean's ankles, loose enough to allow him to walk but short enough to entangle him in should he try anything untoward. He would wait another hour or so then ply his victim with smelling salts. That would leave him groggy enough to lead safely back down to the basement.

* * *

Ellen had tried to insist Sam rest while she and Bobby checked out Ridley Miller's address but she had met a brick wall. There was absolutely no way Sam was being left out of the trip. "Sam, listen to me. I know you want to find Dean but you are not ready for this. Honey, you can hardly walk ten paces, let alone…"

"That's not true!" Sam retaliated. "You haven't seen me at therapy. The only reason I don't walk more than ten paces is because this damned apartment is too small!" To make his point, he moved closer to Ellen and towered deliberately over her. "You're not my mother and as much as I appreciate you taking care of me, Dean is my brother and I'm going to be there when we find him."

Bobby had stayed well out of the argument. He knew better than to stand in the way of an angry Winchester but perhaps it was time he put his oar in. "Ellen, I hear ya, but Sam's his own boss. 'Sides, last Dean saw, Sam was at death's door. Seeing his little brother alive and well might help him…". He paused, realising he had given away more of his thoughts than were advisable. He was probably only saying what the others had thought, too, but Bobby wasn't expecting to find Dean in good shape if he was alive. A couple of weeks out in the wilderness, alone with a demonic creature, was hardly a recipe for wellbeing. If he was right, Sam might be the only thing Dean could cling to and keep himself alive.

Facing down Ellen's steely gaze, Bobby attempted a placating smile. "I'll look out for him."

Sam grinned at Bobby then turned his winning smile on Ellen. Confronted with the eager faces of both men, Ellen had no choice but to relent. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Fine, fine, have it your way. I'm not going to stand in the way of you killing yourself if that's what you really want." She wagged a finger in Bobby's direction. "Don't let him push himself too hard."

"Hey! Standing right here!" Sam protested, but his heart was leaping in his chest.

Bobby tossed the young Winchester his jacket. "We'll give you a call when we get there, just in case…". Ellen nodded, grateful that at least one of the men was still thinking straight. "I'll bring the car around."

Alone with Ellen, Sam softened his tone. "Ellen. Thank you for looking out for me. I really do appreciate it but…I've got to do this. I can't not be a part of Dean's rescue."

Ellen nodded. "I know, honey, I know. Just stay safe, okay. I don't want to be sitting by your bedside again, you hear?"

"Scout's honour," Sam promised. Pulling on his jacket, he went to join Bobby in the car.

* * *

"Get up," the voice commanded. Dean understood the words but something told him not to heed them. "Get up," came the voice again, more insistent this time. Dean felt groggy and disoriented. Even with his eyes closed, the world seemed to be spinning like he was on a carousel. "I know you're awake," came the irritable voice once more. This time though it was accompanied by a sharp nudge in the ribs that almost took Dean's breath away. The creature's feedings left his body more and more vulnerable, until even the slightest rough handling left bruises and brought pain.

The hunter's eyes snapped open in alarm, immediately meeting Ridley's impatient stare. Reality came rushing back into his mind and he prayed that the old man only wanted him to eat something. He couldn't bear the thought of being drugged again. His head pounded almost constantly, whether from the after-effects of the pharmaceuticals or some kind of withdrawal when they weren't plaguing his system, Dean couldn't be sure. The only thing worse than the prospect of being drugged was that of a feeding. Somehow he knew that the creature's next feeding would be his last. Ridley might try and keep him fed and relatively warm but Dean could feel how fragile his body had become. It was almost like his bones and organs were turning to ash beneath his skin. He had danced with Death long enough. Now it was time to embrace it.

To his surprise, Ridley yanked hard on Dean's arm, bodily lifting him off the bed. The young hunter woozily drew himself up into a seated position, blinking through the dizziness and only belatedly realising that he wasn't tethered to the bed anymore.

As if reading his mind, Ridley warned, "Don't go getting any ideas. You might be conscious but you're weak as a kitten. Come on."

Dean had long since given up on the smart replies. He just followed Ridley's instructions obediently, unable and now strangely unwilling to do anything else. Whatever put an end to this slow decomposition from the man he was into a breathing skeleton was his only wish.

At first, Dean found it hard to gain his balance with his hands tied behind his back and the sedative still coursing through his system. He reluctantly had to lean into Ridley as the old man guided him through the bedroom door. Woozily, the hunter tried to take in his surroundings, unable to suppress the training in him that always taught him to know his exits. Sadly, it wouldn't have mattered if every door in the house opened onto freedom, Dean Winchester was the walking dead.

The staircase leading to the ground floor seemed impossible, each step hazing in and out of focus. Ridley was pushing at his back but Dean was hesitant. He stumbled on the first step but the old man held fast to his pinioned arms. The force of the drop jarred the young man's arms half out of their sockets and he gasped in pain. "Be careful," Ridley commanded. He moved to Dean's side and steered the hunter down each step until they made it safely to the bottom.

Dean was panting hard by the time they paused, sweat beading on his forehead. Ridley pushed him on, refusing to pause even for a moment. He forced Dean down the basement stairs, his touch growing increasingly hard and careless. Even in his drugged state, Dean recognised the signs. Ridley always seemed more ruthless and detached when he was about to summon the creature for a feed. It was as if the old man couldn't stand what he was doing and tried to divorce himself from his own heinous actions.

Dean momentarily considered one last burst for freedom before he was chained back to the wall, but he could conjure neither the will nor the strength to do so. He wouldn't make it two steps before Ridley would stop him. No, it was better to just face Death with courage.

Dean watched numbly as Ridley fastened him against the cold, stone wall. He felt the heavy familiarity of the manacles against his bruised wrists and felt tears prickle behind his eyes. After everything he had seen and faced, it was incredible to think his life was going to end like this. Sam's face was all he could see – his warm, brown eyes and open smile, studious frown and hurt, puppy dog face. Dean had always known he wouldn't die peacefully in bed but he had been sure whatever violent end came his way, it would be protecting his loved ones. His only comfort now was the hope that perhaps he would meet his little brother on the other side.

Ridley stepped back, carefully avoiding eye contact with his prisoner. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, "I'll get you some water, perhaps something to eat."

"No," Dean whispered, shaking his head wearily. "I don't want it."

Ridley's face registered something bordering on shame. "Fine," he said, tersely. "As you wish." He mounted the basement steps and closed the door firmly behind him, leaving Dean to his own morbid thoughts.

* * *

"We must've gone wrong somewhere," Bobby said, peering out at the dead end of dirt track leading into the middle of the woods.

"I'm telling you, this is exactly where we're supposed to be." Sam folded the map until it showed their exact location and pointed out the last few turns they had made to Bobby. "See. This isn't exactly a sprawling metropolis, Bobby. I know we came the right way." He was trying hard to hold on to his patience but it was slipping away rapidly and the older hunter's even keel did nothing to make him feel more sane. Sam retraced their steps carefully on the map before checking the date on the document. It was the most recent map they could get ahold of, about a decade old, and the gas station attendant had assured them nothing had changed since its publication.

"Maybe the place got torn down. The ground looks pretty hard packed," Bobby offered. "Could have been a demolition job. You know how basic these old clapboard houses can be."

Sam clenched his jaw and fought the urge to punch something. "Maybe," he conceded through gritted teeth. "C'mon," he said, opening the car door.

"Where?" Bobby asked in surprise.

"Well, I'm not going to just sit here and believe my eyes. It could be just beyond the first line of trees!" Sam didn't wait for a reply but got out and slammed the door behind him. A moment later, Bobby was at his side and the pair walked closer to the densely packed forest where the track trailed off.

Sam took a step into the brush, struggling to find his footing in the boggy, uneven ground. Bobby gripped his arm and rolled his eyes. "You got a death wish?"

"What?" Sam asked. "No."

"A death wish for me, I mean. Ellen'll strip my hide if you so much as a graze yourself. Wait here for me." Sam opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He sighed and stepped back to let Bobby pass. Perhaps it was better to leave this part to the older hunter anyway, save his strength for the final burst when they had Dean in their sights.

Sam watched Bobby's back receding into the shadows of the woods, surprised by how quickly the hunter disappeared completely from view. He listened carefully to the snapping twigs and rustling branches, occasionally hearing Bobby's colourful swearing washing back to him on the wind. Finally, the grizzled hunter emerged, his cap askew and leaves adorning his shoulders. Sam stifled a grin. "Anything?" he asked as seriously as he could.

"Nah," Bobby grumbled. "Not even so much as a pedestrian track to follow."

"So I see," Sam said, failing to keep his grin suppressed.

Bobby shot him a withering look and brushed angrily at the foliage sticking to his clothes. Tugging on the peak of his cap, he gestured to the map. "Let me look at that thing." He scanned the fold marking where they were standing. "There." He pointed a stubby finger at a symbol bordering on a small lake.

"What's that?" Sam asked, peering closer.

"It's a licensed fishing spot. In a place like this, chances are there's some local in that spot almost every day of the year."

"You think they might know where Ridley Miller's house is?"

Bobby shrugged, "We've come this far. It's worth a try." He turned back to the map, narrowing his eyes as he traced the path they would need to follow. He looked sheepishly up at Sam. "Maybe you should wait in the car."

"What?! Why?" Sam protested.

"It's a good fifteen minute walk, Sam, over uneven terrain," Bobby stated, bluntly.

"So? I can do it, Bobby. I didn't come on this trip to wait in the car," he said forcefully. "I'm coming with you."

"Sam…"

"Save it, Bobby, 'cos you're not changing my mind and that's final." He levelled his gaze at the old hunter just to make it quite clear how serious he was about this.

"Fine…but we're taking it slow," Bobby grumbled and pointed his finger in the direction they needed to go.

* * *

Five minutes into the walk, Sam was starting to feel an unwelcome twinge in his lower spine. At first, he shoved the sensation aside in mild irritation at how useless he had become. Then, as he continued to follow Bobby's lead and twinge grew more localised, Sam started to feel a bit worried.

Over the past weeks, he had pieced together moments of his time in the wilderness after the crash. He could vividly recall his older brother watching over him, remember the sensations of cold and hunger. Sam desperately wanted to save Dean but now it was clear to him that he didn't want to repeat that experience in the forest either. It wasn't so much for his own sake as for that of the others it affected. If he collapsed now, Bobby would either have to leave him to avoid risk of paralysis or carry him back to the car, neither of which Sam wanted. He would have wasted more time in the race to find Dean as well as risk living out the rest of his days in a wheelchair.

The young Winchester swiped at the beads of sweat on his upper lip and ran a hand through his hair. His hands were trembling and Sam clenched his fists to try and stop his rebellious body but it did no good. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't notice Bobby dodge to the left of the path to avoid a boggy puddle. Sam's foot plunged ankle deep into the bog, catching him off guard and dragging a yelp of pain from his throat.

Bobby was at his side in an instant. "Sam!" His alarm only grew as the young man leaned heavily on him, his breath coming in short pants. "Breathe through it, Sam. Come on." Assured that Sam's foot was free of the bog, he supported the limping hunter to a fallen tree trunk. Bobby took in the sudden paleness in Sam's skin and the sheen of sweat covering his face and neck. "That's it. You're staying put!"

To Bobby's surprise and great relief, Sam nodded sadly. "Okay."

"Oh, well…that was easier than I expected," Bobby admitted, although in truth Sam's quick defeat gave him as much cause to worry as to be grateful. "How's your back?" he asked in concern.

Sam rubbed his eyes and sniffed. "Hurts a bit, I guess." He looked up at Bobby's anxious face. "I'll be okay, just need to rest for a bit." It was such a relief to be sitting down and the pain in his back was receding enough for him to think straight again.

Bobby didn't like to leave Sam alone but he knew it would be pointless suggesting they return to the apartment. "Wait right here and don't move an inch, okay."

"I might start heading back along the path, take it slow, you know?" Sam said, dejectedly. He didn't like the idea of someone scrutinising his every step and, truth be told, he didn't think even Bobby's slowest pace could match the speed he needed right now.

Bobby pondered the idea for a moment. "And you won't move even a step off the path we came on?"

"I promise," Sam breathed, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "You got any reception? I got a few bars."

Bobby dug his phone out and nodded. "Okay. You need anything, and I mean anything, just call me right away." He hoped he sounded convincingly severe. Sam might be all grown up and independent but he was also ashen and unable to walk properly so the older hunter wasn't about to back down and play nice. His fight was already won since Sam seemed to agree and Bobby carried on along the path alone.

* * *

Ellen was starting to feel at a bit of a loose end. She was used to managing and tending a bar single-handedly while still keeping her ear to the ground about demon business. She hadn't taken a day off since her husband died and, to her shame, she had even baulked at the idea of coming all the way out here for the Winchesters.

It had been Jo who had forced her to come with promises of looking after the Roadhouse in Ellen's absence and even consenting to her mom's choice of temporary manager. The young Harvelle's crush on Dean Winchester hadn't been lost on anyone, least of all Ellen, who had listened to endless questions about hunting, most of which ended with a Winchester related one. As much as she understood her daughter's feelings, it caused her pain to think about the history between the two families.

For so long, she had clung to her disappointment in John Winchester, her insatiable anger towards him for coming home alive when her Bill had not. She hated herself for her own weakness but hated John more for his life and vitality. If he had been a real man, he would have died at his friend's side instead of turning his back. For a long time, the hatred had poisoned her thoughts about the whole Winchester family. Sam and Dean had grown up with John as their only role model and, in their early teens, Ellen had seen his work in them in a way she didn't like. Before long, both boys had been tarnished with the same brush and she wanted nothing to do with them.

Still, they say time heals all wounds, but in this case, it was more a bolt of lightning out of the blue. The mother in her had considered the worst for Jo. Her daughter was ignorant to the provisions Ellen had put in her place for her should anything happen to leave Jo alone.

Many a night, Ellen had lain awake in bed, replaying the nights Bill had come home broken and bleeding, filled with stories of the close shave he had experienced with one demon after another. Sometimes, they had been together in the fray and, even after Jo changed their world, Ellen considered herself a hunter along with the best. She was all too aware of how close they ran to death and it would take only an instant for their lives to slip away from them.

Now, Sam and Dean had watched her nightmare come true. They had lost their mother, their father, a girlfriend. Could life he cruel enough to take a brother, too? Perhaps the Fates would not be content until all the Winchesters were nothing but ash in the ground.

So, Ellen had relented and traveled hundreds of miles to be at the bedside of traitorous blood. She had told herself she was doing it for Bobby and, for the journey to Whitehorse, she had meant it. The true extent of the situation had not hit her until she entered Sam's hospital room. Seeing him battered and almost beyond recognition beneath the machines keeping him alive, Ellen had felt her heart swell with affection. Sam and Dean were no more than orphaned boys, brought up in a twisted reality where asking for help was a sign of weakness. Jo might have ended up like them, relentlessly hard, playing at being an adult so the world wouldn't hurt them any more or ask the tough questions.

She prayed that Bobby and Sam would find Dean alive but, even if they did, there was no telling what kind of shape he'd be in. If there was one thing she could do to keep herself busy, it was preparing poultices and potions that would scarify any trace of demonic toxins. On top of that, they would undoubtedly need plenty of the usual household medical kit supplies. Seating herself at the formica table, Ellen wrote a list. She tried to consider every possible harm that might have befallen Dean, things that a hospital might not fully understand. By the time she had planned for every eventuality, the list filled both sides of the paper and she forced herself to stop. It was time to head for the store and see if the local one-stop stocked even a tenth of the items.

* * *

Sam rested on the tree stump for a good few minutes before starting the journey back to the rental car. He knew Bobby would hurry and he wanted to go back alone. He gingerly placed one foot in front of the other, bracing himself with each step for the pain it brought in his back. It didn't help that everything his doctor had told him kept replaying in his mind. Pain when you didn't know the cause was somehow better than when you could perfectly imagine the barely healed bone fragments wobbling together, just waiting for the force that snapped them apart again. Sam suddenly felt overwhelmingly fragile and found himself prodding the ground ahead of him with a stick before putting his foot forward. It made the trip agonisingly slow but he was ignorant to the passage of time. His sole focus was keeping his body steady and his eyes on the path until he saw the glint of metal and the sanctuary of four wheels in the distance.

Pausing again on the path, Sam set aside his stick and massaged the sore spot at the base of his spine. He was surprised and a bit concerned at the heat that was emanating from the site. He prayed he hadn't inflicted any lasting damage on himself, that it was just the exertion. His fingers moved over the soft flesh, carefully seeking out something that told him how bad it was. No knobbly bits were sticking out in the wrong place, that was definitely a good sign. Besides, he couldn't just sit on a tree stump all day and wait for Bobby to rescue him. He just had to get on with it and make it back to the car in one piece.

Taking it at a snail's pace worked wonders and, by the time the car came into sight, Sam was feeling much better. Apparently, he had also just got there in time as Bobby's voice sailed out to him from behind. "Sam!"

Sam waited until he had set foot on the hard packed ground beside the car before turning round. He tried to sound nonchalant, as if he had actually been hanging around the area for ages. "Hey, Bobby. What did you find?"

"We're in the right vicinity. They say there's a place hidden quite a long way into the woods, just a bit further to the east." Bobby jerked his head in the direction beyond the car and Sam followed his gaze, half expecting to see wisps of smoke curling out of a fairytale chimney. "Apparently, it used to have a track all the way up to it but it is completely overgrown now."

"Well, from the dates on Naughton's file, he's probably no spring chicken anymore," Sam noted.

"Let's hope he's not senile though," Bobby added, suddenly considering for the first time quite how useless that could make Miller.

* * *

Despite Dean's protests against food, Ridley brought down a plate almost fit for a king. He eyed the food suspiciously, his body strangely immune to any pangs of hunger. Ridley went to chop a piece of cold steak but just watching him cut into the chewy meat made Dean feel sick. "Don't I get to choose my own last meal?" he asked, wryly.

Ridley didn't answer. He had hardened himself to his task and he was determined to stay on track. Sympathy was a weakness he couldn't afford to possess. Instead, he continued cutting the food and presented a mouthful to Dean who did not take it. "You must eat something," Ridley insisted.

Dean kept his mouth firmly shut, jaw tensed in case the old man attempted to prise it open and force feed him. The two men glared at each other, although the young hunter was lacking the energy to do much more than watch his captor warily.

It was somewhere in the midst of their silent tussle that voices could suddenly be heard outside the house, followed by a sharp knock at the door. Dean could hardly believe his ears. He would recognise the tone of those voices anywhere, even the rhythm of the knocking against the heavy wooden door. Sam. His eyes latched onto Ridley's for a split second, polar opposite emotions running through both faces, Ridley looked horrified but Dean showed relief and even a shard of happiness. Sam was alive and perhaps he was about to be saved.

There was only one thing he could do, knowing how predictable it was. Dean opened his mouth to holler as loudly as he could. No sooner had he opened his mouth than Ridley delivered a blow to his cheek that sent Dean reeling. He refused to succumb to the encroaching haze and opened his mouth to shout again. Sam was his only hope. This time, it was the stool that hit him hard across the head and Dean slumped, unconscious, against the wall. Blood oozed lazily from the open wound and trickled down the side of his head into his ear.

Ridley straightened himself up and took a deep, steadying breath. Gathering his wits about him, he slowly ascended the stairs and his guests beyond.

END OF PART 14


	15. One Step Closer

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : I know I promised to message everyone who reviewed, so I'm really sorry for not doing that. You all certainly deserve it after the wait you've put up with! Finally, the story is moving on though & this one has a pretty big cliffie for H/C lovers. The next part is already in the works, after much procrastination. I hope there're some people out there still holding on despite my rubbish-ness with time management.

PART 15 : ONE STEP CLOSER…

Sam and Bobby hesitated before mounting the porch of Ridley Miller's house. The wood looked so damp and rotten that they were half afraid that they would put a foot right through the planks. Sam was more concerned than Bobby, knowing that slipping up could put him right back in the hospital, a setback he could not afford.

The pair waited impatiently by the door, taking in as much as they could of the battered building that might be of use to them. Sam surveyed the property with barely checked emotion. He grimly recalled the inbred family of cannibals back in Hibbing, Minnesota, where he had been captured and where Dean had been tortured. This house was reminiscent of that place and it made Sam shiver to think that his brother might be suffering worse than that somewhere. He prayed that Ridley gave them the lead that would bring Dean safely home again.

"Are you okay?" Bobby asked, noticing how drawn Sam's face appeared and the shiver that ran through his body. Sam nodded, mutely, not quite trusting his voice to remain steady. Bobby was about to knock again when footsteps could be heard shuffling towards the door.

Sam stood up straight, trying to look as imposing as possible. They had prepared their cover as FBI, reopening the old case after a local murder appeared to follow a similar pattern. It was a tough one to pull off but both Bobby and Sam knew that they needed to ensure Miller was suitably impressed to answer all of their questions. No stone could be left unturned and, if they blew their chance once, they knew they wouldn't be getting another one.

The door opened and a stout, elderly man peered around it. His blue eyes surveyed the strangers with suspicion and perhaps an ounce of fear. Sam figured he probably didn't get many visitors out here in the sticks. "Yes?"

"Ridley Miller?" Bobby asked.

"Who's asking?" Ridley queried, keeping the door open only a fraction.

Bobby produced his fake FBI identification badge from the inside pocket of his waxed jacket. Sam did the same, grateful to his companion for smartening up a little before the trip. For his own part, he had failed to achieve the Bureau look in his jeans and slightly crumpled clothes. Bobby, on the other hand, had pulled out all the stops to look like the perfect agent in the field. "Federal Bureau of Investigations, Agent Clarke and this is Agent Blake." They had both chosen the most average surnames they could think of, something that would be hard to remember after they had left.

Ridley peered closer at the badges but they were quickly whipped away before he could scrutinise them too much. The old man looked from one 'agent' to another and Sam could have sworn he saw through their fraudulent identities with those cold eyes.

Bobby quickly took the lead, realising that Sam wasn't quite up to doing the tough questioning at the moment. "Sir, we'd like to talk to you in connection to the murder spree that took place in and around Little River."

Ridley swallowed hard, hoping his fear didn't show. "Why do you want to talk to me?"

Bobby perfected the nonchalance that he knew would get them through the door. "Its routine to talk to anyone in contact with the killer. You'd be surprised how many have been untraceable or deceased but we just want to confirm some of the facts." He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. "If you wouldn't mind?"

Ridley paused and, for a second, Sam wasn't sure the old man was going to let them in. At last, he nodded and pulled back the door to allow the two hunters access. He led them across the threadbare runner and into his living room. "Can I offer you some coffee?" The last thing he wanted was to have the two men lingering around for longer than necessary, but Ridley was shaken and he needed a moment's excuse to compose himself.

Bobby nodded, thinking of his own agenda for getting the old man out of their sights. "That'd be great, thanks." He and Sam took a seat on the sofa, oblivious to the fact that they sat on the exact spot where Ridley had laid Dean on his arrival at the house.

The pair of hunters watched Ridley's retreating back until he disappeared from view and then set about scanning the room for any signs of demonic foul play. Sam wandered around while Bobby sat as innocently as he could in case Ridley returned.

Sam gestured to the rows of occult books lining the shelf and Bobby raised his eyebrows but neither spoke. The young Winchester searched every nook and cranny he could in the time but nothing in particular jumped out at him and the clinking of coffee cups on a tray could be heard. By the time Ridley entered the room, it looked like neither agent had moved.

He handed each man a mug and sat down opposite them. "What do you want to know?"

"What can you tell us about Alan Naughton?" Bobby asked, producing a professional looking notebook and silver pen.

Ridley took a slow sip of coffee. "Haven't you been to the psychiatric centre?"

"We're revisiting the facts, Mr. Miller. Humour me," Bobby said, sternly.

"Naughton confessed to the murders, he knew every in and out of each case. There was no question as to his guilt. He had frequent bouts of mania and I was one of the people employed to restrain him." Ridley's gaze wandered from Bobby to Sam and then flitted uncertainly around the room.

Bobby pressed, "You were there when he had his final breakdown though?"

"Amongst several others, yes. Why?"

Bobby cleared his throat and glanced briefly at Sam. "Listen, Mr. Miller. This all might sound a little far fetched but recent findings have given us reason to believe that there might be something a bit extraordinary about the case."

"How so?" Ridley asked. He looked at Sam who was watching him like a hawk.

Bobby pretended to sound sceptical, "Something supernatural, Mr. Miller."

"Sounds a bit X-Files, doesn't it?" Ridley replied.

Sam added, "That would be right up your street, wouldn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

"From the looks of your book collection, it is an area of great interest to you." Sam watched the old man for any telltale signs that they had got too close to a dangerous secret but Ridley's face was unreadable.

"As you say, an interest, nothing more. Are you insinuating that I am some kind of murderer?" Ridley asked, the irritation barely concealed in his voice.

Bobby shook his head. "Of course not, Mr. Miller. We are just trying to get to the bottom of the case and provide the poor souls with some kind of rest and retribution. A specialist in the occult reviewed Mr. Naughton's case and said he displayed several undeniable signs of possession."

Bobby rambled on, building up a case to make Ridley drop his guard and give up whatever information he could. As he did so, Sam stood up and walked around the room. Ridley watched him closely but did not object.

Sam was itching to search the house from top to bottom. He didn't know his occult library as well as Bobby did but he knew some pretty rare books on the subject when he saw them. Ridley had some expensive and, more concerning, extremely powerful texts just sitting on a dusty shelf. No ordinary enthusiast owned such items, not unless they had plans to use them. The connection between Ridley, the creature and Dean's disappearance was undeniable. Why were they still sitting here skirting around the issue with deceits and carefully chosen words when they could beat the answers out of him?

Sam struggled to control his mounting emotions, knowing that Ridley's aged strength was probably a match for his own at this point, so his actions depended on following Bobby's lead. Then, every reservation was dispelled in one fell swoop when his movements brought him to the window.

Leaning forwards, Sam reached out a finger and touched the tip to the yellow dust on the window sill. He hardly needed to bring it to his nose to be sure. Sulphur. The sure sign of a demon in the house. Whirling round on the spot, the hunter interrupted Bobby's conversation abruptly. "Mr. Miller, would you leave us alone for a moment? There is something important I need to discuss with my partner."

Ridley's grip tightened on his coffee mug but otherwise his body language did nothing to betray him. His confused expression matched Bobby's but he rose slowly from his chair anyway. "Of course."

Sam waited impatiently for Ridley to leave the room before shoving his sulphur dusted finger under Bobby's nose. "It's here."

Bobby held up his hands in protest. "Woah there, Sam! Just slow down. We can't be sure of that."

"Bobby!" Sam exclaimed, hardly believing his ears. "How can you say that?! What more proof do you need?" he said, waving his finger in the older hunter's face again.

Bobby lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Ridley could be possessed himself or he could be controlling it. If it's the latter, we need to know how before we turn him against us."

"There's one way to find out which," Sam said, rummaging in his pocket until he found a tiny vial of holy water. He tipped the contents into Ridley's coffee mug and forced a sweet smile to his lips.

Once Ridley was called back into the room, he took an almost instant sip of the tainted coffee. Bobby and Sam's eyes were glued to his face, looking for the first signs that it was boiling his insides up. They were disappointed. The old man looked up from his mug and stared back at the pairs of eyes fixed on him. "What is it?" he asked, innocently.

Sam looked shiftily at Bobby, wondering whether the grizzled hunter was going to make a move. When he didn't, the young Winchester's patience wore through. "Do you mind smelling this for me?" he asked, extending a piece of paper with the sulphur on it towards Ridley's face.

At first, the old man leaned away from it. He looked to Bobby, hoping he would keep his hot-headed partner in check but he found no help. Gingerly, he shifted towards the yellow powder and sniffed, lightly. He made a small noise of disgust and wiped his nose with his handkerchief. "Sulphur!" he exclaimed.

"You know where I found it?" Sam asked, his eyes flashing ferociously.

"I couldn't possibly guess," Ridley replied.

Sam jerked his head towards the window. "Right there, on your windowsill. Got anything to tell us now?" he provoked.

Ridley swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. He looked at Bobby. "I think you'd better keep your buddy in check, agent. Are you sure he's fit for duty?"

Sam pressed on. "Mr. Miller, you could say we're specialists in the field of the unusual. Sulphur is a clear indication of demon activity, usually the source of entry or exit. That puts you firmly in the frame for these murders yourself."

Ridley stood up indignantly but Sam could already see the tremor in his hands and hear it in his voice. "How dare you insinuate such a thing! I want you out of my house right now!"

Sam stood, too, towering over the old man menacingly. Ridley was the only thing standing between him and Dean and he was damned if he was going to play nice anymore. Bobby understood Sam's concern and the lengths he would go to for his flesh and blood but the last thing he wanted was Sam ending up in prison for murder himself. He stood up and gripped Sam's upper arm to steady him.

Sam must have felt it but he ignored it, his eyes boring into Ridley's. "Where is he?" he demanded, calmly, menace dripping from every syllable.

"Who?" Ridley asked, on the verge of breaking down. The way the young man was looking at him made him feel emotionally stripped, afraid that his eyes reflected the young hunter dying in his basement. "I have no idea what you're talking about and I think it is time you left." He took a step back from Sam, almost feeling his way to the door, eyes never leaving the pair of agents. "Get out!" he said firmly, trying to keep his voice calm.

Sam shook his head and started towards the old man. Bobby, worried that the emotional Winchester was about to do something he would regret, grabbed Sam's arm again. "Sam! Leave him!"

The young man shrugged easily out of his grip but instead of attacking Ridley, he shoved the old man aside and headed back into the hallway. "Dean!" He hollered at the top of his voice, scanning the corridor and flinging open the other doors downstairs. Unless the man had some kind of trapdoor, Dean wasn't there. Taking two steps at a time, Sam sprinted up the staircase and searched every room up there. He jerked open closet doors and flung clothes and curtains aside to reassure himself Ridley wasn't hiding anything from him. Although his mind was racing, it was still subconsciously taking in the surroundings and the continual confirmations that Ridley had occult knowledge beyond the norm. Symbols had been painted on the walls, some for protection, others even Sam had not come across before. Books about the supernatural littered the floors and were even stacked in neat piles on the step rises. Strange artefacts that the hunter knew were weapons against evil hung from the cracked plaster walls alongside bowls containing amulets and taxidermied animal parts.

With each hurried step, Sam knew he was close to where Dean must be held. Nobody kept this amount of rare, expensive and powerful stuff on display in their home unless they had regular need for it. "Dean! Can you hear me?" Sam shouted again, more urgently this time.

"Sam!" Bobby's voice called from the foot of the staircase.

Sam didn't want to hear lectures from the older hunter but he had exhausted his options upstairs and he could faintly hear Ridley's aged pleas behind Bobby's voice. At some point after Sam had started searching the house, the old man must have cracked under the pressure. He was no longer feigning ignorance but was begging for mercy.

Sam came down the stairs. Ridley was babbling on about a key and was rifling through a giant set of keys, bunched together and dangling from a long chain. "You're going to want to see this," Bobby said. Sam followed his lead to a drape he had missed under the staircase. Pulled back, it revealed a door. What was worse was that the dark brown wood was barely visible beneath a graffiti of symbols and words. They had clearly been added at different times over a number of years. Some were etched crudely into the wood, scored deep but now aged and faint. Incantations had been written in indelible pen, less laboriously sized words had been painted on. To the untrained eye, it was just a mess. To those who knew, it was a terrifying scream for protection against danger, a desperate attempt at self-preservation in the face of almost certain death. But what truly chilled Sam's blood was the realisation that each and every scrawled line was not intended to banish evil from whatever lay beyond but to keep it in.

"Dean," he breathed, suddenly sharply aware of the thudding of his own heart and the blossoming pain in his newly healed back. After all this time, had they finally come to the end of the line? Was he going to find his beloved brother on the other side of the door? And what kind of shape would he find him in?

Turning to Ridley, he levelled a chilling gaze at the old man. "Open the door or I swear to God…"

"I can't! I don't have the key!" Ridley lied, even when he saw his last thread of hope disappearing out of reach.

Sam pulled out the gun he had stowed in his waistband and jammed it beneath the old man's chin. Bobby blurted something out that clearly demonstrated how out of character Sam was behaving. Ignoring his companion's placating words, Sam repeated the command. Ridley pleaded for mercy but there was none to be found in the coldness that had filled the brown eyes staring down at him. Instead of relenting, he jumped as Sam released the safety on the gun.

This time, Bobby said, "Sam, whatever you are feeling right now, you do not want to do this. You are not a killer."

Sam paused, his eyes never leaving Ridley, his jaw twitching with barely checked rage. After a long moment, he flicked the safety back onto the gun. No sooner had Bobby released a pent-up breath of relief than Sam had whirled in a flurry of movement and aimed his leg firmly at the weakest point on the door.

The young hunter ignored the protestations his body made as he hurled himself against the door over and over, only standing back when Bobby weighed in to help. Finally, with a loud crack, the door burst open and slammed hard against the wall. The two hunters peered warily down the inky blackness of the staircase, guns cocked ready for whatever might lay beyond. Although Ridley hadn't known it, Sam's gun was packed with rock salt and, at this moment, he was extremely grateful for it.

A blast of cold air hit Sam's face as he took the first step down. It smelled damp and musty, like any other basement, but there was a different scent overlaid. It was heady and cloying and Sam quickly deduced it was incense or some kind of burnt offering. He could feel the blood pounding in his head, growing more intense with each step he took.

The next step down allowed him to see over the banister rail into the room itself and the sight made his stomach lurch, sickeningly, with a mixture of horror and relief. Dean was slumped awkwardly against the wall, his arms tied behind his back and looped through a ring in the brickwork. Even from the closing distance between them, Sam could see the dark stain of congealing blood down the side of his brother's face.

"Dean!" Sam called, skidding across the floor and dropping to his brother's side. Bobby trained his gun around the room, watchful for anything that might burst out of a dark corner or apparate out of nowhere. He knew he would have to look out for three of them right now. Sam's gun lay discarded on the floor beside him.

END OF PART 15


	16. Reunited

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See part one for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : I can't begin to thank all the people who have been supporting me and this story & I'm really sorry to have let you down by not posting for so long. It has been a cruel year but a steep life learning curve in the silver lining. I wouldn't go through it again for the world but I'm finally back in the frame of mind for a bit of Winchester whumpage! Please review & let me know how you think it's going.

PART 16 : REUNITED

"Dean," Sam breathed. He looked down at his brother's pallid features and the barely congealing blood on his temple. It felt like years since he had last seen him but the unconscious form hardly matched his memories. The features were the same, the chiselled jaw and curve of the lips, but everything was diminished somehow, gaunt and deathly. It terrified Sam to see his brother so vulnerable.

He reached out and placed a hand on Dean's cheek, "Dean? Dean, can you hear me?" His question went unanswered. Sam looked over his brother's body and tried to assess the damage. His hands were pulled roughly behind his back and firmly tethered to a ring in the basement wall. Sam felt for the knife he had stashed in his boot and levered Dean as far forwards as the ropes would allow and sawed at the bonds. They were thick and well oiled, making it tough work. With a curse, the ropes frayed and split apart and Dean's body slumped bonelessly forwards into Sam's arms.

Sam pushed Dean back in his arms, trying to get a better look at his face. "Dean, wake up," he commanded. The elder Winchester's head lolled against his chest and Sam cursed under his breath. He wasn't strong enough to carry Dean out of here, he needed his brother conscious.

Ridley staggered breathlessly down the stairs behind the two hunters. "It's not what you think! You don't understand…" He moved towards Sam but Bobby pressed a warning hand against his chest, barring his path.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay back," the old hunter growled. He looked over to where Sam sat with Dean cradled in his arms. "Sam? Talk to me."

Sam looked up, his eyes wide and scared. "He's completely out but we've got to get him out of here."

"What the hell did you do to him?" Bobby demanded, his face inches away from Ridley's.

"I…I…I'm sorry…" Ridley stammered, unable to form the words that he feared might be the difference between life and death in the next few minutes.

"Sorry don't cut it," Bobby barked. "You'd better start talking fast," he said, his grip tightening on the gun clearly displayed in front of the frightened old man.

"That thing, that thing needs to feed! It just kept making me kill, kill over and over again. But I found a way to stop people dying…for a little while…but I'm sorry…I didn't have a choice." Ridley's eyes skittered from the gun brandished near his face to the hunter bearing down on him.

Bobby didn't need to hear any more to put together the pieces of the puzzle. Dean had been used as a bottomless buffet for this demonic evil stalking the forest. It took every ounce of restraint not to pull the trigger and blow Miller away. What kind of man could keep a human being chained up in the darkness for weeks, slowly being fed upon, without it eating him up inside? Sam's voice drew him away from his feelings of revenge.

Sam was struggling to pull Dean up off the basement floor, the effort clearly aggravating his newly healed injuries. Bobby was at his side in a flash, pushing the younger Winchester's hands away from Dean's dead weight. "Let me do it," he insisted. Trying not to linger over the injured young man's cadaverous face, the blood and shadows contrasting starkly against his ashen skin, Bobby hauled Dean into a fireman's lift and settled his limp body over his shoulder. He had expected to struggle with the weight of 175 pounds of solid muscle but the kid felt like aerated bone, light as a feather.

When the two hunters turned back to the staircase, Ridley was gone. Sam gave Bobby a hopeless glance but they both knew the score. They needed to get Dean to safety as soon as they possibly could. Everything else could wait. Sam led the way up the stairs, opening doors until they finally made it onto the porch and fresh air. It felt good to be out of the stale odours of Ridley's freak show house, like they were free, but both men knew rescue was just the first step. This case was far from over.

"We can't get the car up here," Sam pointed out, hopelessly.

"I can carry him," Bobby said, not wanting to scare Sam with the fact that his brother weighed less than half of what he used to. "C'mon." Not waiting to hear any of the younger Winchester's protestations, Bobby led the way back through the woods.

* * *

In the distance, the flash of metal hub caps against the sunlight was like an oasis in the desert to the two desperate hunters as they stumbled through the undergrowth. Bobby had to admit that, even though Dean weighed barely anything, the difficult terrain and fairly length journey was taking its toll on his aching back.

Finally, they were in arm's reach of the car. Bobby paused and jerked his head towards his coat pocket. "The keys are in that pocket." Sam pulled them out and opened the back passenger door. With mixed relief and concern, Bobby slid Dean from his shoulder and allowed Sam to help him ease the unconscious hunter across the back seat. Sam rushed around the other side of the car to receive his brother, supporting his head and shoulders while Bobby bundled Dean's loose limbs as comfortably as he could into the cramped space.

Bobby leaped into the driver's seat with Sam riding shotgun, although the young Winchester's eyes hardly left his brother. "Where are we going?" he asked as the wheels skidded in the mud.

"Back to the apartment," Bobby said.

"He needs a hospital, Bobby," Sam whispered, his eyes never leaving his brother's face.

Bobby looked at the young Winchester in the rear view mirror, his eyes betraying his surprise. All hunters were familiar with the same code of conduct, hospitals were off limits unless it was a matter of life and death. He hoped this wasn't going to be one of those occasions but he knew Sam wouldn't play that card unless he thought it absolutely necessary. "Sam, you know we can't. Let's get him back to the apartment and do our best to patch him up there. We need to assess the damage in private before we go involving hospitals. You know the drill, they'll ask more questions than is good for them." Even as he spoke, Bobby recognised the panic rising in the younger hunter's face and he tried his hardest to quell it. "Just take it easy. Dean's gonna be fine. We've got all the basics back at the apartment and anything else is gonna take books and research, not IV drips and bandages. We'll figure it out, Sam. We don't need no damn hospital."

Sam didn't seem convinced but as long as Bobby was at the steering wheel, he was in control of where they headed. He tried to suppress the panic that had been building in his chest since they had left Ridley's house. The moment of relief upon finding Dean had quickly been replaced with fear that they still had no way of knowing how to help him or how to stop the demon from attacking again. They could only hope the creature didn't have a way of seeking out its prey. They needed time to help Dean recuperate and sort out a plan of action.

He looked back over the seat to where his brother lay, motionless, seeming so far away. Dean's hands rested as they had been arranged across his chest, the bones of his ribcage clearly visible beneath the thin T-shirt he was wearing. His chapped lips were parted as his body struggled to draw in breaths. His brother's condition caused a physical pain in Sam's chest, a leaden weight balling up every emotion he felt for Dean – desire to take his place, desperate need for him to keep fighting. He just wanted a sign, anything that might tell him he hadn't lost the only living person he truly cared about.

"Call Ellen," Bobby insisted, shoving his phone into Sam's hands. He could tell that the young hunter was close to losing his wavering self-control and needed a distraction, a purpose. "Tell her we're gonna need the full medical kit plus all the protection we can get – salt at the perimeters and a devil's trap under Dean's bed."

Sam nodded dutifully, forcing his eyes back onto the road. He tried to channel his father and disconnect his emotions from what was happening. He knew he was useless to Dean as a gibbering wreck and after everything his brother had done to look after him in the wilderness, Sam owed him every possible chance of getting through this. Flipping open the phone, he dialled Ellen's number and waited.

* * *

Ellen was sifting through a stack of library books on the couch. It had been a mission just to check them out, since the librarian insisted on her filling out several forms and show enough ID to get herself across the Mexican border, not to mention adding a hefty joiner's fee. Still, if the dusty books held even the smallest clue as to how the hunters might vanquish the evil in the forest, it will have been worth it.

Plus, the trip into town was worth it just to distract herself from dwelling on what kind of mess Sam and Bobby had probably got themselves into. Perhaps years of living in the hunting world had made her a pessimist, but it had never even occurred to her that they might actually find Dean. Her image of how their day might pan out mostly involved alienating even more locals than they already had and returning home with a handful of needles to add to the haystack.

When her phone began ringing and she saw Bobby's name come up, she mentally conjured up a few words of solace before she had even answered it. Sam's voice came breathless and agitated at the other end of the line, the background noise telling her they were driving. "Sam? Are you okay?"

"We've got him, Ellen, but he's in bad shape. We're on our way back but you need to be ready for us." Sam was clearly struggling to stay calm and there was a tremor beneath the stern tone in his voice.

"Okay, I'll have the kit ready. How bad?" she asked, already off the sofa and seeking out all the medical paraphernalia she had managed to strew around the apartment.

"I don't know…I can't tell. There's nothing external, but we've still gotta protect him from whatever is out there…"

"I'll get the place salted…" Ellen began.

"And we'll probably need a devil's trap and all the charms you've got," Sam interrupted, his brain tripping over the items they needed as he tried to account for every possible outcome.

"How far out are you?" Ellen asked.

"Uh, not far, about fifteen minutes," Sam said, Bobby's gravely voice audible in the background.

Ellen raided Sam's room for all the missing first aid items, knowing they would last have been in use at his bedside. "Don't worry, Sam. Dean's gonna be fine. I'll have everything ready."

There was a pause for a moment at the other end, then Sam's voice came, faint and tinny. "Thanks, Ellen." Then the line went dead.

* * *

Ellen was practically climbing the walls by the time she finally heard the rental car squeal to a halt outside the single-storey apartments as Bobby slammed on the breaks. She twitched the curtain back and looked out into the parking lot just as Bobby's head emerged from the back seat of the car, dragging Dean's legs forwards onto the damp asphalt. Sam eased Dean's body gently towards him, sliding the hunter's inert body towards Bobby. Ellen had hoped for the best, tried not to consider the worst, but now it had been confirmed. She was out of the door in seconds and at her fellow hunter's side.

Dean looked like death warmed up, a tracing paper version of his former self. It wasn't so much the cuts and bruises, even the congealed blood on his skin, but more the sheer extent of his emaciation. Sure, the young Winchester had been missing for a while but not long enough to lose such mammoth amounts of weight. It was scary how easily his skeleton could be made out beneath the thin flesh. His closed eyes were sunken in their sockets, great shadows smudged beneath them. What few ragged clothes he still possessed did nothing to hide Dean's frightening state. "Jesus, Bobby," Ellen breathed as Sam scrambled round the from other side of the car and was momentarily out of earshot. "What the hell happened?"

Bobby shot her a look that spoke volumes then quickly averted his gaze. There wasn't time for emotion, only standing back to take stock of what they were dealing with and get to work. "Help me with his legs," he rumbled as Sam started easing his older brother's body off the back seat.

Bobby pulled on Dean's limp arms, dragging him upwards until he could get a good grip around his waist. Then, he hoisted him over one shoulder into a fireman's lift and staggered towards the apartment building.

Once inside, Bobby gently manoeuvred Dean onto the spare bed. The number of times he had looked at those fresh, starched sheets and wished he could see his best friend's son lying there. Now, his wish had come true but, instead of feeling relief, dread and fear flooded his veins. There was no telling which way he tide would turn. Bobby was no stranger to the pain and heartbreak of losing loved ones before their time. He had learned the hard way that there are no guarantees in life and that death hovered over them all with each intrepid step they took into the world. As he glanced over at Sam's youthful face, Bobby knew the young Winchester was thinking the same.

It seemed a different lifetime when he used to sit sipping beers with John Winchester while the two young boys played around them. Even on hunts, sometimes it had felt more like a camping holiday. The boys had treated it like a vacation and they had been so innocent, even when the hand of Death had already touched their family and clawed Mary away from them all. Remembering Sam's childlike face, his open vulnerability, didn't match the gangly young man sitting before Bobby now.

Bobby and John's paths had not crossed until months after her untimely departure from the world, but the old hunter felt like he knew Mary. His warped memories almost put her vibrantly into their hunters' existence, the stories John told breathing new life into her even years after she had gone.

Ellen stepped into the room, bringing with her a flurry of activity as she surrounded Dean's bed with first aid kits and stinky potions for warding off evil entities. "Get him out of those clothes. Let's see what we're dealing with," she commanded, stirring the two shell-shocked men into action.

It felt wrong that, even amidst all the flurry, Dean remained motionless. Where there should have been complaints and sarcastic grumblings, there was nothing. Sam took it upon himself to undress his brother, in the hope of supplying him with what little dignity he was likely to get in the coming days. He had tried so hard to hold himself since the moment they had found Dean, dying, in that God forsaken basement. But now, as he touched his brother with gentle ministrations for the first time, feeling the frailty of life beneath his fingers, suddenly it all became too much. As he fumbled with the torn fabric of Dean's jeans, Sam found his vision clouded with unbidden tears and the blue denim blurred in front of him.

Sam swiped at his eyes, angry at his own weakness, angry at the monsters responsible for destroying his ever-strong brother. The anger started to boil inside him, twisting from self-pity to something darker and more dangerous. He would make sure that Ridley suffered something more hideous than he could ever imagine, even in his sick brain. He might be an old man but he deserved an eternity of hell for what he had done. Sam would see to it that he got it.

By the time he had got a hold of himself once more, Sam had managed to undress Dean but the tears were rolling unheeded down his face. Looking up, he caught Ellen's concerned gaze from the doorway and knew the question on her lips. He quickly turned away, refusing to be drawn on it. She knew the score. His emotions didn't need explaining and he wasn't about to indulge her, even if there were the time to do so.

She stepped forwards to the bedside and looked the patient over. "Okay, Dean. We know you're in there somewhere, so what's it gonna take for you to come on back to us?" Her hand rested lightly on his forehead for a moment, under the guise of checking his temperature. In truth, she needed that moment of closeness if she was to move past her own emotions and get him well again. She reached for his thin, bony wrist and measured his pulse. It oscillated dimly beneath her fingers, much too thin and thready for comfort. She knew she would have to monitor his heart rate closely until Dean woke up. Instincts told her to delegate the job to Sam but it only took one look to see that he was in no fit state to do anything beyond watch and carry out the most menial of tasks.

As if reading her thoughts, Sam hovered at Ellen' side. "What can I do?" She eyed him, sceptically. "Ellen, please, give me something to do."

"Fine. I need you to monitor his pulse for me. Can you do that?" Ellen didn't like the dazed expression on Sam's face but if he wanted to be busy, she knew she wouldn't have any other choice than to comply. He nodded but seemed to hesitate before picking up his brother's hand. "He's not going to bite," she murmured.

Sam shot her a withering look. "I know that. It's just…"

"What?" Ellen asked.

"Never mind. What are you going to do first?" he asked, drawing the attention away from himself as quickly as possible.

"We need to clean him up, make sure all his wounds are sterile. Then we'll have a better idea of what is wrong," Ellen stated, matter-of-factly.

"I don't think most of it is physical," Sam said, dully. His voice trembled as he spoke and even the harsh swallow that followed sounded like he was on the verge of opening the floodgates.

Ellen raised a hand to rub his back but she felt him tense under her touch. She knew what he was doing, blocking off anything resembling emotion until he was through the worst and knew Dean was on the road to recovery. "Sam, it'll be okay."

"I know it will," he replied, stiffly. He knew that Ellen was only trying to be helpful but it was the last thing that he needed. He wanted something to hit, something to punch, something or someone to punish for the wrongs in the world. Sometimes, when Dean behaved like that, Sam would try and reason with him, remind him that swinging blindly at the world would do nothing to right the wrongs. Now, it was Sam's turn to be irrational. But what he wouldn't give to play the other role again, to be the one who was trying to calm Dean down. "His pulse is weak," he said, trying to train himself to concentrate on the small task he had been given.

"It'll improve," Ellen said, clearly just trying to make him feel better.

"Yeah," Sam affirmed, bluntly. "I'll clean him up," he said, reaching for the warm water and cloth that she had put beside the bed. He wrung out the cloth and ran it gently down his brother's arm, loosening some of the dust and dirt. All it did was heighten the whiteness of Dean's skin beneath.

Ellen was taking a closer look at the freshest head wound. She prodded at the edges of the laceration and gently swabbed the blood and debris from it. "This is going to need stitches," she sighed. Her gaze travelled over Dean's face, so innocent and childlike in his vulnerable state. She reached for the needle and thick medical thread before carefully running it through the narrowest edge of the cut. The skin puckered as it closed and Ellen worked hard to try and make as clean a job as she could. If Dean got better, she wanted him to have as little scarring as possible – at least of the physical kind. Satisfied that the stitches were as small and neat as they were going to get, she covered the site and sought out the next injury.

"Did you do this?" Ellen asked Sam, pointing quizzically at Dean's wrists. The gauze was caked with dirt, half of it peeling away. It didn't look fresh enough for Sam or Bobby to have done but it didn't match that Dean's captor would take the time to provide such comforts. Sam looked at his brother's wrists and shook his head, a slight frown shadowing his forehead. Ellen cast her thoughts aside and set about peeling away what was left of the tape and gauze, using a damp cloth to prise the fabric away from Dean's skin. The skin beneath was red raw and mottled with bruising. It took no stretch of the imagination to envisage how hard the young hunter must have fought his bonds to inflict so much injury on himself. Ellen wondered whether it was done in a conscious effort to release himself or as an instinctive response to the huge pain he was experiencing at the time. She prayed it was the former but neither picture filled her with much joy. Gently moving the damp cloth over Dean's bony wrists, Ellen could see the pattern of rope and even chain imprinted in the broken skin. Then she carefully wrapped fresh bandages around the area and paused to take in the rest of Dean's damaged body.

Unbeknownst to her, Bobby was watching over her shoulder and Ellen almost jumped when his gruff voice came close to her ear. "Do you think the damage is internal?"

Ellen shook her head. "I don't think so. The bruising appears to be more superficial. It's more like…"

"…like the life has been sucked out of him," Sam finished for her, his eyes never leaving his brother's face.

"He just needs time to recover," Ellen nodded.

"Isn't there anything we can give him to help?" Bobby asked in concern. "The poor kid is at Death's door."

Ellen darted a fiery look in his direction, warning him against using the 'D' word in front of Sam. Bobby looked suitably chastised but Sam quickly diffused the situation. "Can't we boost his immune system a bit?"

"When he wakes up we need to try and get some good food into him," Ellen suggested.

"That could be days! Bobby, you've got black market hospital connections. Can't we get hold of some of the banana bags and stuff that they give coma victims to give them sustenance?" Sam asked, his eyes wide and questioning.

Bobby looked at Ellen as if expecting her to protest but she was waiting just as expectantly as the young Winchester. "I can make a few calls but, out here, I can't make any promises. We'd need to stump up a fair bit of cash for it. Normally, I'd call it in as a favour but I don't think that's gonna wash with the connections I'd need to make. They'd be tenuous at best."

"Do it," Sam commanded. "Make the calls. I don't care what it takes. I've got savings."

"I've got some," Ellen contributed. "Money don't mean nothing when a hunter's life is in the balance." She smiled awkwardly at Sam, mentally squirming a little under his surprised gaze.

"Thank you, Ellen," the young hunter whispered.

* * *

Half an hour and several intense phone calls later, Bobby had secured them a small medical centre's worth of supplies. After some discussion, it was decided that the trip was a two person job to Whitehorse. Sam was grateful for some time alone with his brother, even though he worried about being able to give Dean the care he needed should he take a turn for the worse.

The room was silent and Sam couldn't recall the last time he had truly experienced such quiet. It made him uncomfortable. Everywhere the Winchester brothers went, they had the familiarity of each other's sounds, whether it was Dean's snoring or the tap of Sam's fingers across his laptop keyboard. Sound was proof of life, proof that the world was still turning and that the apocalypse was not yet upon them.

Sam cleared his throat uncertainly, his own voice serving to remind him of how alone he was. "Dean?" He surveyed the motionless form before him, trying to believe that his brother resided deep within the same body. "I know you can hear me in there. I know you've gone through a world of hurt…but I want you to know that you saved me, Dean. You saved my life and now I'm going to save yours." He squeezed Dean's hand in his own, the thin fingers half crushed in the passion of Sam's grip. Tears rose unbidden to his eyes but, without the audience of Ellen and Bobby, Sam allowed them to flow freely down his cheeks. "You just gotta show me how. Dean, please show me how to help you."

* * *

Bobby and Ellen were as speedy as the rental truck and local law enforcement allowed them to be. They had ample supplies to last the next few weeks at least and Bobby had taken no risks. There were basic rehydration supplies and pain killers but also a selection of strong post-op drugs just in case the damage Dean had received was worse than they had first believed.

"Sam, we're home!" Ellen called as she wiggled the key free from the lock. When there was no response, she exchanged a concerned look with Bobby and they dumped the supplies unceremoniously on the formica bench. "Sam?" she called before pushing back the door to Dean's room.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips when she saw the mop of dark hair resting against Dean's hand. Sam was spark out, his face tilted towards his brother's. Ellen smiled and approached the bed. Dean's position had not changed since she had left and the rise of his chest was almost invisible to the untrained eye. She pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling the dull thud of his pulse.

Quietly reassured that both brothers were not in harm's way, Ellen went back into the living room to sort through the supplies. "Sleeping," she explained to Bobby's concerned face. "Let's see what we've got here."

Bobby started setting aside bottles, tubing and bags of fluids. "He's gonna need rehydrating. Got a couple of bags of O negative in case he needs it. I'll stick it in the refrigerator."

"There was bruising over his rib cage, probably a good idea to bandage them in case anything's broke," Ellen noted. "I don't think we should give him anything for the pain until he's woken up. With the head injury, we need to know what we're dealing with."

The light was fading and Ellen needed to turn the overhead bulb on in order to minister to Dean. She had wanted to avoid waking Sam but he blinked owlishly in the sudden brightness and looked around in bewilderment for a moment. "What's going on?" he muttered.

"Sorry to wake you, hun, but we've still got a way to go before Dean's patched up good and proper." Ellen pulled back the blankets from the elder Winchester's chest, wincing at the sight of so much bruising and the stitched gashes across his pale skin. She tucked one end of a bandage under Dean's side and motioned to Sam. "I'm going to roll him towards me and I want you to get the other end of the bandage. Okay?"

Sam nodded and Ellen slid her arm under Dean's back, feeling the hard nobbles of his vertebrae pressing painfully into her skin. She rolled him gently towards her body, his weight no more than a child's. Sam pulled the bandage and the two hunters bound Dean's ribs as tightly as they dared without doing further damage.

Meanwhile, Bobby had put together the IV pole and placed it by the bed before hooking up a banana bag and some saline solution to rehydrate Dean's overtaxed body. "This should keep him going for the next eight hours."

Sometime during the bustle of activity, Dean had slowly surfaced from the depths of unconsciousness. He was in limbo, halfway between waking and sleeping. He was vaguely aware of people around him but he couldn't muster enough strength to pull himself fully into the world. As his conscious mind began whirring into action, Dean realised the longer he played dead, the safer he might be. Danger surrounded him – Ridley, the demon with an insatiable appetite.

But then there was a voice, one that made his heart jolt in his chest. It was a voice Dean never dared believe he would hear again. Sam. Could it be a trick? Sam was surely dead. But the need to see his brother's face, even if it were an illusion, was greater than the fear. Dean tried to call out, unsure of whether his voice carried or merely echoed in his own head.

Sam was carefully securing the bandage in place across Dean's chest when he heard the cracked groan that signalled his brother's waking. "Dean?" he whispered, excitedly. His reached out to touch Dean's cheek, anchoring him to the living world. "Dean? I'm right here. C'mon, it's time to wake up." A fraction of a frown passed across Dean's face and his cracked lips moved in silent words.

Slowly, glazed green eyes cracked open under shadowed lids and that was enough to see a smile spread across Sam's face. "Hey, bro." For a moment, Dean's eyes drifted meaninglessly across his brother's face before the frown creased his brow once more. He strained to see through the bleary haze and make out the figure leaning over him. "Sam?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe it was true. Dean lifted his head off the pillow, trying to get a closer look.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me." Sam squeezed his brother's hand beneath his own. "It's good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

Dean struggled to absorb the torrent of words, trying to make sense of them and find his own voice to reply. "…tired," he breathed.

"I know. You were in pretty bad shape when we found you. But we're gonna get you fixed up. Just take it easy." Sam could see Dean's eyes drooping and felt panic rising in his chest. He desperately wanted to keep his brother awake, to hear his voice, but he knew Dean needed sleep. Throughout the days that Sam had been lying, recuperating in a hospital bed, Dean had been suffering still, a prisoner to unspeakable evil.

He watched Dean's eyelids slip from half mast to fully closed and breathed a sigh of frustration. Sam felt Ellen's hand rest lightly on his shoulder, "Just give him time. He'll be back to his old self before you know it." Sam nodded mutely. Ellen added chirpily, "At least he knew who you were. His brain can't have taken too bad a knock."

"I guess," Sam replied dully.

Ellen rubbed his back, "I'm gonna get an IV in him. Why don't you get some proper rest for a couple of hours."

Sam shook his head emphatically, "No. I want to be here when he wakes up again."

"Honey, you've got plenty of time before that happens. Dean's going to be out for the count for a good few hours yet. 'Sides, he is going to need you strong when he does wake up." Ellen half expected Sam to protest again but she was surprised when he nodded.

"Fine, I'll shower and take a nap. But I want you wake me the moment he stirs." Sam's dark eyes bored into Ellen's, his determination etched into every tensed muscle.

"Sure," Ellen assured him.

"Promise me," Sam pushed.

"Okay, Sam, I promise," Ellen said, wearily. She had learned long ago not to fight a Winchester unless you enjoyed losing.

She watched Sam shuffle towards the bathroom, looking like he might keel over from exhaustion at any moment. Ellen recognised another typical trait John Winchester had passed down to his sons. They always put each other's welfare ahead of their own needs, endearing in their affection but leaving themselves vulnerable to the simplest plan of attack any enemy had.

Meanwhile, Bobby had taped the IV needle and tubing to the back of Dean's hand and was rearranging the bedclothes as tenderly as if it were his own son lying there. He looked up to catch Ellen's lingering gaze. "Thank god we got him back."

* * *

"We found sulphur on the windowsill. It's a demon. We know how to destroy it," Sam said, firmly.

"I hear you, Sam," Bobby replied, "but Ridley had hundreds of books on demons. He said it needed to feed, he said it had made him kill over and over. If it could be banished like a regular demon, don't you think Ridley would've done it already?"

"So what do you think it is?" Sam spat.

"I don't know. I'm just saying there's no point racing in half cocked and getting yourself almost killed again! You're in no state…" Bobby stopped himself, seeing the younger Winchester's face twist into creases of despair and vulnerability.

Sam sank down onto the couch, dropping his head into his hands. "I'm sorry, Bobby," he mumbled tiredly from beneath sagging shoulders. "I just want this to be over. I need it to be over. I want my brother back, I want…" His words choked into a strangled sob before Sam reined his emotions back in. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice suddenly tight and flat. "I'm going to sit with Dean for a bit." Pulling himself back to his feet, Sam blinked back the lingering tears and walked quickly past Bobby to the bedroom.

* * *

Dean looked around him. He strained his eyes but there was nothing but darkness in every direction. He called out for Sam but his voice just echoed over and over, each new cry mixing discordantly with the last until Dean had to cover his ears. Then he felt the gathering energy just beyond him. It was like a black hole, drawing sustenance from the darkness and building into a monstrous mass of evil. Dean was frozen to the spot, unable to move even the slightest muscle as he sensed long wraith-like fingers stretching towards him. He shivered as the cold enveloped him and he felt the first brush of a talon against his arm.

"Noooooooo!" Dean shouted, desperation tearing the word from his lungs. His eyes snapped open, harsh brightness searing his retinas, and his left hand sought out the spot on his right arm where the creature had touched him. Dean tore at the skin, trying to destroy the seeping cold of poison spreading through his flesh.

Sam leapt forwards in his chair, "Dean! Dean, calm down! It's okay, you're safe. You're okay!" Dean wasn't listening, his eyes wide with fear and desperation as he mutilated his arm. Sam pulled his brother's hand away before he could do any more damage. "Dean, stop it. You're hurting yourself. Dean!"

Finally, pinning one hand to the bed, Sam managed to force Dean's frightened eyes to lock with his own. "Sam…" Dean breathed, incredulously. "Is it really you?" His voice was cracked and hoarse, almost unrecognizable.

"Yes, Dean. It's really me. I'm right here." Sam's brown eyes relaxed into a relieved smile and slowly Dean's ragged breaths evened out. He raised one shaky hand to his little brother's face, his cold skin meeting the flushed heat of Sam's. "I thought you were dead…" he whispered.

"Right back at you," Sam grinned, his hand closing over Dean's. For a long moment, neither brother spoke as they basked in the momentary bliss of knowing they were together again, alive and safe from harm.

Dean suddenly winced and both boys looked down at his right arm. The skin was raw with blood spotting in patches where he had broken through the skin. "Thought you needed another injury or two, huh?" Sam smiled. "Being half dead isn't enough for you?" He moved to the other side of the bed and rummaged for cotton wool before gently washing the blood from Dean's arm.

Dean watched his brother work in silence, his eyes tracking Sam's every move. Finally, he broke the silence. "How did you find me?"

"That's a long story. You were with some guy called Ridley Miller. He had locked you up in the basement." Sam surveyed Dean's face for any signs of recognition. When he spoke Ridley's name, Dean's eyes hardened and, were it possible, his face paled another shade. "What do you remember?"

Dean closed his eyes and after a few moments Sam wondered if he was going to open them again. "Pain. Just endless pain. That's what I remember."

Sam nodded, numbly. There was nothing he could say to make it better. "What was it?"

"Ridley controlled the demon, let it feed…" Dean's voice trailed off; he didn't need to say any more. His eyes drifted from the blankets up to Sam's face, green eyes softening. "I thought I'd never see you again, Sammy." He scanned his little brother's face, the cuts from Sam's near-death experience in the woods still visible on his face. "What happened to you after I…?"

Sam downplayed the drama of his own story. "Bobby got me to the hospital by boat then Ellen showed up, too."

"Ellen's here?" Dean asked in surprise.

"Yup, one big happy hunter family," Sam grinned.

Dean's face fell into serious lines. "Did you kill it? Did you kill the demon?"

Sam shook his head, sorry when he saw the disappointment in his brother's eyes. "No, we just got you out. Bobby and Ellen are working on our options now."

"I want to see them," Dean insisted.

"Dean, you've only just woken up. You should be resting," Sam chastised.

"I can sleep when I'm dead," Dean quipped, a flash of his former self springing to the surface. "This is more important."

Shrugging his shoulders, Sam called the two older hunters into the room. Bobby grunted his approval on seeing Dean awake, cleverly understating the overwhelming relief he felt to see those green eyes alert and open, if not pain free. Ellen was allowed to give a more maternal greeting, planting a kiss on the older Winchester's forehead. "It's good to see you awake, kiddo."

"Thanks for taking care of me," Dean said, awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable about his state of vulnerability. "What have you got on this demon?"

Bobby seemed grateful to get back down to business. "From what we can tell, this demon is attached to a host. It can possess him or it somehow controls him. In the case of Alan Naughton, he was a classic possession. Then, it transferred, possibly through several different hosts, before Ridley Miller came along."

Dean frowned, following Bobby's train of thought. "Ridley wasn't possessed. He seemed as frightened of it as I was. It was almost like the demon was bullying him into doing its will. He said letting it feed on me was the only way to keep the body count down. I was supposed to be the never ending buffet."

"So you think Ridley was trying to kill it?" Sam asked, ignoring his brother's faint attempt at humour. "He had shelves full of books on demonology. Anyone would have thought he was a hunter like us. Bizarrely, it's like he is on the same side as us."

"Slightly different methods of dealing with the problem," Bobby pointed out, refusing to find any common ground with the old man who had all but killed Dean.

"Where's Ridley now?" Dean asked, his voice fading with each word.

"He escaped," Sam replied in defeat. He felt ashamed that even an old man had eluded them. His only concern had been to bring Dean home safely but now he had time to review the bigger picture and wished they had brought Ridley to justice.

Ellen was quick to recognise Dean's drooping eyelids and interjected, "Let's take this into the living room. Dean needs his rest."

"I'm fine…" Dean protested, his voice already slurring into sleep. "Just…a few minutes…" Eyes sliding closed, his head fell laxly against the pillow.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, anxiously.

Ellen moved to Dean's bedside and brushed her hand gently across his forehead, checking the cadence of his breathing. "He's exhausted, Sam. He's going to need days, if not weeks, to recuperate from this." Ellen steered the younger Winchester towards the bedroom door. "We'll check on him again later."

* * *

The conversation about how to deal with the demon went on late into the night, finally vanquishing Sam, who lay sprawled on the couch. One long leg dangled off the edge and his head was turned towards the security of the couch back. With his unkempt hair curling in tendrils around his neck and strands trailing in his eyes, Sam looked a picture of innocent youth. It was hard to match up the living nightmares etched into his brain with the unsullied exterior.

Surrounded by books, Bobby and Ellen plied themselves with coffee, determined to continue the task the damaged Winchester boys could not. Bobby's revelations from the reservation had proven invaluable in directing their research. They were dealing with a demon potentially thousands of years old, embedded in native folklore. Unfortunately, identifying their foe was the easy bit, it was now a case of seeking out its weakness or a way to banish it before it attacked again. Ridley's door had been marked with various devil's traps and protective symbols, none of which had clearly done him much good. There was something specific to this particular spirit and the two hunters were determined to dig it up before anyone else got hurt.

It was only with the sixth cup of joe and a reeling head that Bobby thrust a book he had been given by Phil on the reservation excitedly into Ellen's hands. "I think this could be our creature! It fits everything Phil told me."

Ellen rubbed her eyes and pulled her body up in the chair she had been slouching in. "Kigatilik? It says here it's an Inuit demon that kills priests or shamans. That doesn't exactly fit the bill but I guess the rest is closer than anything else we've found."

"But the Kigatilik is related to the so-called Claw Spirits. Very little is in the public domain about them but they exist alright. It's only that they stay in such remote parts of the northern hemisphere and attacks are often so far apart from one another that no parallels are drawn between each one. Not to mention the fact that most people who go missing are assumed dead before any bodies can be found. The snow and icy conditions make rescue operations difficult so chances of survival are minimal."

"So we've given this damned thing a name. It still doesn't help us stop it." Ellen asked.

"Phil said, with our expertise, we might be able to put together some kind of ritual that'd do the trick. He said the shaman on the res was a joke."

"Okay, let's pull the books on shaman practice then," Ellen suggested bluntly. Bobby pulled a face, prompting her to ask, "What?"

Bobby shook his head in exasperation, "That's easier said than done. This is powerful magic, the items needed possess generations of energy handed down from one shaman to another. It'll take more than a trip to the herb counter to get that kind of mojo going. We need animal bones, crystals, eagle feathers, the works, but they all have to be meaningfully gathered."

"So you're saying we've _got_ to have an authentic shaman if we're going to get rid of this thing?" Ellen queried.

"Damn straight," Bobby sighed. Then, his eyes lit up with a sudden gleam of excitement. "And I think I know where to get the next best thing." Flicking open his cell phone, Bobby punched in a number on speed dial. "Just give me a minute," he said to Ellen, taking his call into his bedroom. He returned a few minutes later. "You know Red? A lone hunter even by our standards, didn't spend more than a few nights a year with a roof over his head. He's a tough nut, spent several years hunting the Territories."

"How far out is he?" Ellen asked, praying the answer was the one she wanted to hear. Glancing over at Sam, exhausted and broken, she knew it was an answer they all needed to hear.

"Lady Luck's on our side, an hour outside of town at most." Bobby's whole face seemed to light up with the prospect of salvation. They had all gone through so much, had come so close to losing everything, it was hard to believe Fate might actually be finally cutting them a break.

That was until they were interrupted by a fierce, frantic knock at the door. Sam awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright, his hand already reaching for the knife he had stowed in his boot. Ellen and Bobby had guns already trained on the door. Creeping to the door, Bobby slipped the lock and opened it a fraction. Half concealed beneath a raincoat, cowering from the lashing of wind and rain at his back, Bobby recognised the craggy lines of the man's face. "Ridley Miller," he breathed.

"Please, please," the old man stammered. "It's coming, it's coming…"

END OF PART 16

Please, please review! Even just a few words will sate the appetite of the cookie monster!


	17. Medicine For The Soul

WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : So here it is, the final chapter!! I wasn't sure I was ever going to make it. A huuuuuuugggggeeee thank you to everyone who has followed this story since it's first chapter so long ago. An extra special thank you, too, to the people who have written lovely little notes of support during my difficult times in the real world. All of you are brilliant & I thoroughly enjoy reading all the other inspiring works out there. I know this fic could have included even more episodes of angst at the end, but a girl's got to stop somewhere & I didn't want to stretch it out any further. I hope even though it's the last part, you'll still let me know what you think. Best wishes to all of you!

On a research note, I apologize for the cack-handed attempts at Ojibwe translations. I know they suck but I'm hoping, for the sake of drama, no one will mind too much!

PART 17 : MEDICINE FOR THE SOUL

For a split second, not one of the hunters moved. They were rooted to the spot, completely unprepared for how to deal with this sudden turn of events. Finally, Sam spoke, his voice hard as iron. "You've got some nerve coming here…" His knuckles tightened around the knife hilt as he advanced slowly on the shaking, elderly man.

Ellen quickly moved in to place a palm across the young man's chest. She could feel his heart beating strong and fast. "Sam, take it easy. Hear him out."

Sam refused to tear his gaze from Ridley Miller, his voice a low growl through gritted teeth. "He nearly killed Dean…he would have finished the job if we hadn't got there in time. You want me to hear him out?! He burnt his negotiating bridges the moment he took my brother." Pushing against Ellen's hand, Sam took another step towards where Ridley stood.

The old man's hands were raised in surrender, his limbs trembling, whether from cold or fear or both was anyone's guess. But his eyes spoke his terror as they moved quickly from one hunter to the next in desperation. "Please…" he stammered. "I didn't know what else to do…I didn't want to hurt anyone but I couldn't let him go…"

"You son of a bitch!" Sam retorted. "You deserve to rot in Hell for what you've done!"

"Sam!" Bobby barked. "Why don't you go check on Dean?" It was hardly a question and the steely blue gaze of the older hunter penetrated Sam's angry stance.

Snapping the knife back into its sheath with a warning click, Sam looked from Ellen to Bobby. "Just don't forget what he's done. We can't trust him."

"I know," Ellen said, quietly, watching Sam retreat reluctantly from the room.

Bobby moved close to Ridley, his expression hard and unreadable, arms folded firmly across his chest. "You've got one minute to convince me not to stick a knife in your gut and leave you for the crows."

* * *

All of Sam's pent-up anger dissipated the moment he set foot in the bedroom. Seeing Dean, alive and safe, suddenly put everything back into perspective. This was all that mattered, that they were safe and united. Shoving the knife back into his boot, the young Winchester lowered himself into the chair beside Dean's bed. He watched the rise and fall of his brother's chest, the hitch of his breathing with the chest pain that found him even in sleep. Dark bruises of colour still circled Dean's closed lids, his cracked lips parted as his body worked hard to pull in life giving breaths.

Sam didn't want to wake him but he desperately needed to be close to Dean and couldn't resist pulling one cool, scratched hand into his own. Despite their best efforts to clean him up, blood was still congealed beneath Dean's fingernails, the nails themselves torn and ragged from where the hunter had tried desperately to free himself from the daily torment he had endured.

For a long time, all Sam wanted to do was watch Dean sleep. But finally fatigue overtook him and his head drooped onto his chest, his fingers firmly locked between his brother's.

* * *

Bobby and Ellen kept their voices low as they talked through their options from the safe distance of the kitchen. Ridley sat beside the heater, his head lolling against the back of the chair. There was a chance that he was feigning sleep in an attempt to hear the hunters' plans for him but Ellen doubted it. No matter what had happened to Dean, here was an old, frail man who had found himself at the mercy of a spirit's will. True, he had nearly killed Dean, but no matter how angry that fact made her, Ellen knew it would have spared several lives because of Ridley's act. The strain of his actions was taking its toll. Ridley should have been tucked up in an easy chair in the corner of an old people's home, reliving his better days, not chasing about in the woods after a murdering creature with a thirst for human life.

She wondered how old the man really was, his true age no doubt belied by the ravages of the past months, perhaps even years. Ellen couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Every one of them fighting the good fight had considered sacrificing a few for the good of many. Was Ridley's plight any different?

She and Bobby had grilled the old man for the better part of an hour, sourcing all his rites and incantations, demanding to know the details of each one's effects. By the end, Ridley was clearly exhausted, his sentences losing their precision and the shudders of cold growing by the minute. In the end, Ellen had managed to rein Bobby in, leaving Ridley nursing a cup of coffee with a blanket around his shoulders.

"So what now?" Ellen asked.

"We sit tight until Red gets here, can't be long now. There's nothing Ridley's told us that changes anything. As far as I can tell, we are still dealing with a Kigatilik, and it ain't gonna stop for anything 'cept the power of a shaman."

Ellen's gaze moved past Bobby's shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she peered into the gloom outside. "Speak of the devil," she murmured, jerking her head in the direction of the door.

Red's gloved hand was poised to knock when Bobby flung the door open. Bobby laughed at the shocked expression on the wizened hunter's face. "Ha! Guess you're not the only one with psychic powers!"

"Well, then I wonder what I'm doing here," Red smiled. "It's been a long time, Singer. Glad to see you've still got all your limbs intact." The hunter stepped into the snugness of the apartment, his black eyes flicking across the room in a quick assessment. His gaze lighted on Ellen and the heavy lines of his face immediately lifted in a smile that filled the room with warmth. "You must be Ellen. The name's Red."

"Pleased to meet you, Red," Ellen smiled, extending her hand for him to shake.

Red pulled his right glove off with even, white teeth and raised her hand to his mouth, planting a gentlemanly kiss on it. "Oh, the pleasure is all mine."

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, his flirtatious edge was replaced with business-like formality as he turned to face where Ridley was huddled beside the heater. "And this?" he asked, his voice tinged with distaste.

If Ridley registered the tone in Red's voice, he chose to ignore it and grappled with the arms of the chair as he rose to extend a bony hand. "My name is Ridley Miller. I am so grateful that you are here."

"Hmmph," Red acknowledged with a curt nod. Ellen imagined there were several expletives rolling round in the hunter's head but she appreciated his refreshing ability to retain a sense of decorum. Red looked over at Bobby. "So, you sure it's a Kigatilik? We don't want to be summoning it here only to find we're dressed for a disco when it's a black tie event."

Bobby chuckled, the first time he had found anything to laugh at in goodness knows how long. "As sure as I can be without seeing the thing for myself. Ridley's description fits perfectly."

"Well, let's get on with it, then." Red shrugged out of his waterproof and heavy wool coat beneath. As he stripped off the warming layers, Ellen couldn't help but notice how scrawny the man was, little more than sinew. Were it not for the dangerous flash in his eyes, anyone would think Red could be blown over by a hefty gust of wind. "Where's the Winchester boy?" he asked, innocently.

"Dean's sleeping through there," Ellen said, nodding in the direction of Sam and Dean's shared room. "Why?"

"Can I see him?"

Ellen's mouth gaped for a second. She knew it would be important to have Dean's input but he was in no state to receive visitors. He had barely maintained consciousness for longer than a few minutes so far. "Uh…"

"He's pretty wiped. I'm not sure…" Bobby interjected, ignoring Ellen's stern glare at such an understatement.

"I understand, but we're not gonna get anywhere without the boy's help." Red's mouth tightened into a taut line, annoyance barely concealed beneath the tense muscles.

Ellen ignored the expression gracing his features, maternal protection setting in. "Can I ask what Dean has to do with exterminating this creature? He was a victim, nothing more."

Red shot a glance at Bobby that said he understood exactly what was going on here. If there was one thing he had learned in his dealings with the distressed, widows and orphans, the dying and the damned, it was that a few words can go a long way. He moved towards Ellen, being careful not to intrude on her personal space. "Ellen, I understand your concerns. I gather Dean is lucky to be alive at all but…we need him if we are to stop the Kigatilik for good. Now I've got rituals and chants coming out of my ears but they're good for nothing if the creature is not vulnerable."

"Vulnerable?" Ellen repeated, digesting the wizened hunter's words. Slowly, the reality of what Red was suggesting dawned on her. "You mean…use Dean as bait?" Red withdrew from her chilly stare but said nothing. Ellen looked from him to Bobby and back again. "Surely there's got to be another way? Can't someone else do it?"

Red shook his head regretfully. "The creature is connected to Dean's life force until death. Until one or other of them is dead, the Kigatilik will not be able to move on. Ridley is here. All he needs to do is summon it and the rest of the work is up to me."

"And what are Dean's chances of survival?" Ellen asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

"That I cannot tell you," Red replied gently. "But I will do my best to hasten the ritual."

Ellen looked at Bobby and saw her own anxiety reflected there. A hunter's life was filled with danger and the lurking possibility of life threatening peril just around the corner. She knew Dean had signed up knowing the harsh reality of a hunter's world, but no one was prepared for the slow lingering death he might receive at the hands of the Kigatilik. Ellen set aside the images of the Winchester boys in their youth, how they had weathered the loss of a mother, a childhood, a loved one and finally a father. It would destroy Sam to live without Dean. Hell, she and Bobby had witnessed the peak of the iceberg during Dean's disappearance. There was no telling what it would do to him to know he truly was alone. She could feel tears prickling behind her eyes but Ellen fought them back. "Well, I guess you've convinced me…but Sam's another matter."

* * *

Ellen quietly pushed the bedroom door open and took in the tender scene before her. Dean lay on his side, his grown out hair a messy mop against the pillow. His dark eyelashes rested against pale skin, his brow smooth with dreamlessness. His chest rose and fell in even breaths but he still looked frail enough to break with the slightest mishandling. Slumped forwards across the side of the bed Sam was also sleeping and it pained Ellen to disturb their rest only to put them in danger once more.

Moving round to the side of the bed, she rubbed a hand across Sam's back. "Sam, honey?" she whispered.

The younger Winchester jumped bolt upright before his eyes had even opened and he fixed her with a bleary gaze. He glanced at Dean, checking his brother was still there and his rescue hadn't just been a dream. "Ellen? Is everything okay?"

"It's fine. I just gotta talk to you and Dean." She tried to muster a warming smile but it died as soon as it reached her lips.

Sam eyed her suspiciously. "Why? Whatever it is, you can run it by me."

"I wish I could, Sam, but Dean needs to be in on this, too." Both their gazes traveled back to the huddled form of the elder Winchester, his skeletal frame barely filling half of the single bed. Sam looked at Ellen and swallowed hard, trying to control the defensive temper brooding beneath the surface.

"Let me," he managed.

"Sure thing," Ellen replied. "I'll go fix you both something to keep your strength up."

Sam brushed his fingers against Dean's arm. "Dean?" he whispered. At first, there was no response so Sam pressed a bit harder, squeezing his brother's arm and raising his tone. "Dean! It's time to wake up, bro."

Dean's eyelids fluttered weakly and dazed, hazel eyes focused on his little brother. "Sammy?" he asked, his voice nothing more than a cracked whisper. "What…?" He squinted in the harsh light of the bedside lamp, the action making him look even more helpless and childlike.

"Hey bro, it's okay. Everything's fine, we just need to talk."

Dean turned in the bed, wincing at the sudden aching pain that coursed through his limbs as he did so. Gingerly, he dragged himself slowly into a sitting position, finally releasing a ragged breath of relief. "What is it?"

Just as he spoke, Ellen appeared in the doorway and her face spoke volumes. Dean looked from her to Sam and back again, mustering a little of his old wise ass spirit. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like the sound of this?"

* * *

Ten minutes later the three hunters were sitting in silence, having reached an impasse. Sam had ranted angrily, Dean had exhausted himself trying to allay his brother's fears and now there was nothing more to be said.

If it were possible, Dean's face looked even more haggard and he looked like he might drop at any moment. Yet, the hunter's survival instinct kept him going but Ellen knew it would have its price.

"Listen, I'll say it again, I don't like this anymore than you do. I wish to God there was another way to get rid of this thing, but Dean's our only hope," Ellen pressed.

Sam shook his head wearily, "You say that, but we don't know for sure."

Dean interjected, "Sam, you know the score. We don't have a lifetime to figure this out."

"I know that, Dean, but…" Sam's voice trailed off and he stared pleadingly at his older brother.

Dean recognized that expression and it broke his heart to deny Sam the one thing he wanted. As brothers, they were as different as chalk and cheese but the one unshakable thing that brought them together was the love they felt for one another. Dean had known the pain of fearing he had lost Sammy for good and he knew the black pit of despair it was opening up in his little brother to conceive of losing Dean now. They had come so close to the brink of death, it was unbearable to endure such torment again.

"Sammy, listen to me. I'm not going anywhere. This can all be over if I just do this one thing. We can get back on the road, hole up in some seedy motel with the magic fingers." That brought a smidgen of a smile to Sam's lips and Dean continued. "'Sides, you're going to have my back, right?" He felt bad for playing on Sam's weakness but Dean didn't have the strength to search for any other way. Sam nodded mutely, finally caving to his brother's determination. Forcing a goofy grin, he asked, "So what's a guy got to do to get some food around here?"

"Sorry, I'll get it," Sam blurted out, desperate to have something to do now he could no longer defy his brother's wishes.

"There's some soup on the sideboard," Ellen said, then turned her attention back to Dean. She sat on the edge of the bed and squeezed his hand between her own, noticing how pale and cold it still felt in comparison to her own. Her eyes searched his pinched face for the truth beneath the mask he had held in place for Sam's sake. "I wish there was another way."

Dean swallowed and quickly looked away, down at the bed sheets and out from under Ellen's maternal gaze. His voice sounded small and defeated, "You and me both."

* * *

Sam watched closely as Red meticulously laid out tools and herbs on the coffee table. He recognized some, the sweet grass, juniper, white sage and cedar. Then there were bags of pungent smelling powder that Sam idly guessed at the ingredients but didn't ask. He knew Red was only here to save Dean and that he was an innocent party in all this but Sam couldn't help but feel resentful that the guy didn't have more appealing methods. He watched as the hunter produced a battered, wooden box and opened it. The interior was divided into several compartments. There were cords, small bones that Sam hoped belonged to an animal, eagle feathers, a variety of coloured crystals and a Native American rattle.

Red peered up at Sam from under a hooded brow. "I was sorry to hear about your dad. He was a good man."

"He was a good hunter," Sam corrected.

Red nodded, recognizing the edge of bitterness in the young man's voice. "Well, I guess I don't need to tell you it's a tough life to choose."

"Not everyone gets to choose," Sam replied.

"Sam, I don't know you, but I know the Winchester brothers' reputation. You're doing a good job out there, your father would be proud." He turned his attention back to the items on the table then, without looking up, he added, "Even when the right path is the most painful one."

For a second, Sam thought he caught a glimmer of the scarred soul Red carried inside him. It momentarily shocked him and then, as if sensing his own vulnerability, the old hunter's game face fell back into place.

* * *

Dean ate as much food as his shrunken stomach would allow, acutely aware of Ellen's watchful gaze monitoring the size of each mouthful he consumed. He struggled against his body telling him he was full, knowing he was going to need every ounce of strength if he was going to make it through the next step of the plan.

Finally, he pushed the plate aside, unable to bear another forkful, and slid down wearily in the bed. Resting his eyes behind closed lids, Dean asked, "How long?"

"Whenever you're ready," came Ellen's reply. Dean's eyes opened to meet her anxious gaze and she managed a feeble smile. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"What choice do I have?" he murmured. His dull eyes searched her face with detachment but Ellen could still see the glimmer of hope in their green depths. She wished there was something she could offer to make everything okay but, as usual, there was nothing to be said except the stark truth. Dean's mouth contorted into a melancholy, knowing grimace as he shifted uncomfortably in the bed. "Can you help me up?"

He took a deep, steadying breath as Ellen approached the bed and slid her arm firmly across his back. He tried to ignore the discomfort of her palm pressing against his uncushioned spine and willed his body to follow her lead as she pulled him upright in the bed. "Wait," he breathed, disgusted at his own weakness but unable to move another inch without a moment to recover.

Ellen sat carefully on the side of the bed, shuffling back until she could allow Dean's upper body to rest against her. It frightened her how easily he succumbed to her support and she felt the young man's breaths come in swift succession as he tried to regain his equilibrium. "'kay, I'm ready," he said, clearly trying hard to sound as confident as possible and Ellen moved off the bed once more as Dean managed to swing his bare feet onto the carpeted floor.

He paused and Ellen chivvied, "Ready when you are." Dean did not move, his head bent forwards, staring at his own feet. "Dean, honey? You okay?"

"Do you think it's going to work?" he asked, quietly.

Ellen sighed, her heart breaking at the vulnerability suddenly naked before her. She knelt in front of Dean and ran her hand softly through his dark hair. "Red knows what he's doing. He's got everything planned thoroughly."

"But…do you think I'm going to be…you know?" Dean managed, still refusing to meet Ellen's gaze.

"Oh, honey," Ellen whispered, pulling his skeletal body towards her, ignoring the ingrained resistance Dean put between them. "This isn't going to beat you. It's just another creature to hunt, one that we've found out how to kill. We've always managed to kill them before, now is going to be no different. You and Sam are going to be back behind the wheel of the Impala before you know it." She planted a kiss lightly onto Dean's head and squeezed his cold hands between her own. She cupped his cheek gently and forced his head up to look at her. "Trust me."

The moment was broken as Sam appeared at the door. "What's going on?"

Dean's voice transformed back into older brother hunting mode, hard and determined. "We're going to waste a demon, that's what. Give me a hand, will ya?"

Sam hesitated, looking as if he were about to launch into another protective tirade but stopped himself. Supporting his brother round the waist, Sam helped Ellen get Dean into a standing position and, once sure he was balanced, they made their way into the living room.

Dean knew Ellen had said they were ready when he was but he hadn't quite been prepared for the whole ritual laid out before him. It was almost as if they had been sitting round twiddling their thumbs waiting for him to get out of bed. Strange markings and symbols were chalked onto the walls and sprayed onto the carpet. Candles flickered across the darkened room and there was an acrid smell of herbs burning. In the centre of the room was a chair, presumably where Dean was expected to sit.

"Dean," Red stepped forward and offered his hand to shake. "It's a pleasure to meet John's sons. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Dean replied, vaguely embarrassed that someone who held John in such high regard should meet his son in such a weakened, pathetic state. Sam and Ellen helped him to the centre chair and Red approached him with some rope. "What's that for?" Dean asked, suspiciously.

"You need to stay still and allow the Kigatilik to commence the feeding routine. Instinct will tell you to fight. This is the only way to keep you still."

"Is that really necessary?!" Bobby interjected.

"Yes," Red replied. He didn't wait for Dean's consent but immediately began running the ropes around the arms of the chair together with the young hunter's wrists. The tight binds brought back flashing memories of Dean's time in Ridley's cellar and he struggled to hold back the tide of emotion they threatened to unleash. He looked up at Sam, reminding himself of why he had to be strong, why he had to survive whatever was to come. Sam mustered a smile but the crease of his forehead told Dean more about what was going on inside his little brother's head.

His gaze moved steadily across the room, first to Ellen, then Bobby, Red, and finally to Ridley Miller. In different surroundings and different circumstances, he looked like nothing more than a frail old man who should be watching daytime television with his slippers on in an easy chair. It seemed impossible that he was the same man who had kept Dean cruelly bound up as bait in the middle of the woods for days. The old man's face showed nothing less than complete and abject fear, whether it was for the job he was about to do or the disgust in Dean's eyes, the hunter couldn't be sure. "I'm ready," he ground out from between gritted teeth.

Red turned to Ridley and nodded. The old man cleared his throat uncertainly, seemingly embarrassed at having to perform his horrible ritual in front of others. His voice began as nothing more than a murmur, each word indecipherable and run together in one long sentence of nonsense. Then, as he found his rhythm, Ridley's incantation grew in strength and precision until each syllable of Latin was clear as crystal. Dean closed his eyes against Sam, Bobby and Ellen, the family that were his biggest weakness and allowed his mind to be drawn into the words Ridley spoke.

He didn't know how long he had been listening before Dean felt a cold prickling run from fingertips to toes, the chill that was sickeningly familiar from his days spent in Ridley's cellar. His heart was beating nineteen to the dozen and he could hear it thudding in his ears, set against the rush of his panting breaths. Dean thought he heard a voice call his name in earnest but he was lost to the power of the Kigatilik, whose presence he could feel like electricity in the air all around him. "It's here…" he breathed.

Dean thought he had opened his eyes but he could only see darkness all around him. "Sam?" he called, in a broken whisper. There was sound like static and he wondered if it was only his imagination that told him Sam was talking to him. Then, any awareness outside of himself was crushed in one freezing fist of enveloping ice around his heart. It squeezed every last mote of oxygen from his lungs and spread like tendrils of liquid nitrogen through every valve, artery and capillary. Dean tried to gasp, to draw in a breath from somewhere but he was in a vacuum.

* * *

"Red!" Sam shouted, watching in horror as Dean's eyes stared unseeing ahead of him, each breath more constricted than the last until it seemed he wasn't breathing at all.

Bobby held the younger Winchester forcibly back from the circle where Dean battled for his life. "Let Red do what he must. Be strong, Sam!"

Once Ridley had summoned the Kigatilik, the old man had retreated as far into the corner as he could, cowering from the unworldly creation he had brought here. Red was a picture of calm, taking position where Ridley had stood, his eyes closed in a trance like state. If he heard Sam's urgent call or registered Dean's distress, he ignored it, completely focused on the spirit's exorcism.

His voice rose and fell as if in a song, following a strange tune that seemed to evolve and mutate with each chorus. "Bagidenim, gichi manidoo, oh, gizhe manidoo! Giwe odaapnigaade, awaazhish. Gwayakotam ajiwekamig bizaanendamowin!" As he chanted, Red smudged symbols in the air all around the chair where Dean writhed against his bonds.

Sam watched, helpless, as the dark shadow of the spirit pressed against his brother's frail body, merging with mortal flesh, seeming to grow in immensity and looking more solid with every ounce of life force he stole from Dean. His brother's eyes were squeezed shut against the invasion of his body and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair arms in desperation. His chest convulsed with the lack of oxygen getting in and a deathly pallor was spreading across Dean's skin, tinging his lips blue.

Red continued chanting his words, oblivious to anything beyond his connection with the Kigatilik. Then, suddenly a roaring wind burst the front door from its hinges, whirling like a maelstrom around the confined space, forcing Sam, Ellen and Bobby to cower as objects were caught up in the vortex and hurled across the room. Dean's chair was knocked backwards with the force and, above the sound of wind in his ears, Sam thought he could make out an angry roar, inhuman and disembodied. Throughout it all, Red stood firmly in front of the marked circle, his voice lost in the violent gusts swirling above, below and around him but never seeming to touch him. Then, as suddenly as the whirlwind had emerged, it dissipated into thin air, leaving the group of hunters bewildered and momentarily stunned by the sudden calm that descended on them.

Sam was the first to recover, his first thought for Dean. Running into the circle, he skidded to his brother's side. A sliver of blood slid down his forehead, perhaps from flying debris or from the fall. His lips were blue and not even a shiver of movement coursed through the young Winchester's body. "Dean?" Sam pleaded, desperately. He fumbled for a pulse and let out a pent-up sigh of relief when he found it, weak but existent. "He's alive!" Sam called to Bobby and Ellen who were standing back to allow him space. Ellen ran to the bedroom for blankets and the medical kit while Bobby approached the chair and began untying the knots of rope binding Dean's wrists.

Sam put gentle pressure on his brother's shoulder, willing him to wake up. "Dean, come on. Wake up." He watched with relief when there was a flicker of movement beneath Dean's shadowed eyelids. "That's it, come on back to us." Finally, slits of green, dazed and disoriented, found Sam's face. "Hey, we did it." Sam couldn't stifle the smile that crept across his lips. "It's over."

* * *

Climbing behind the wheel of the rented Chevrolet Cobalt beside Sam, Dean puffed a breath of air into his cheeks. He was glad the goodbyes were over. The whole debacle was awkward and embarrassing. Not only had the hunt been a complete mess but both Bobby _and_ Ellen had been involved, not to mention a hardened ally of his dad's, who was undoubtedly expecting better Winchester stock than he had found on this occasion. No, Dean knew the quicker he could put Whitehorse and all its associations in his rear view mirror, the better off he'd be. Bobby was getting a taxi to the local airport and a connecting flight home with Ellen accompanying him. They'd totally lost their deposit on the apartment, leaving it trashed and almost unrecognisable, but Dean couldn't be happier. He was back on the road. It might not be his beloved Impala baby, but it was good enough for now.

"You good?" Sam asked as he slammed the passenger door shut.

"Couldn't be better," Dean replied, donning his sunglasses and jacking the stereo up as loud as it would go. Revving the engine into a pleasing purr, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and hit the open road.

THE END

Please, please review - even though it's the last chapter! It has been my baby for so long and I'd really love to hear your feedback.


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